


The Adventures of Thorin and Co. (And some other people they don't know.)

by rabbitinthewoods



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives Except Bilbo, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Death, Drabbles, Dragon!Bilbo, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Mild Language, Mild descriptions of violence, Post BoFA, mild description of gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitinthewoods/pseuds/rabbitinthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf meddles, dwarves get into muddles and Bilbo just wishes he had his pipe.</p>
<p>A collection of Hobbit drabbles.<br/>----<br/>Most recent chapters:<br/>Chapter 18:<br/>Kíli just followed her around the table. Stubborn woman. “How can I not make it into a big deal?”</p>
<p>"Here’s a clue: don’t talk about it."</p>
<p>"Ugh, you.” Kíli balled up her fists, the image of a frustrated child.<br/>---<br/>Chapter 19:<br/>“Meleth nín, when I said I wanted a to spend time with you, alone…a romantic day for just us.”</p>
<p>Tauriel’s smile is like the grin of a fox. “Yes?”</p>
<p>"This isn’t exactly what I had in mind."</p>
<p>The grin shutters closed, and Arwen recalls several choice words her father doesn’t know her grandmother taught her.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharp End of an Orcish Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Just messing with ideas. Criticism welcome!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin hasn't got time to watch over feckless chits who wouldn’t know the sharp end of an orcish blade if it was shoved in their belly.
> 
> He has no idea why he’s watching anyway.

He is too small, too thin. He has his talents, that is certain, but they are more suited to libraries than arduous journeys. His brothers should have left him at home. Dwalin hasn’t got time to watch over feckless chits who wouldn’t know the sharp end of an orcish blade if it was shoved in their belly.

He has no idea why he’s watching anyway.

Balin is his usual patient, infuriating self. “They didn’t ask you to watch over him.” He points out.

“Shut up brother.”

“In fact I think they might be slightly offended. They can look after him well enough on their own –”

“Shut. Up.”

Balin smiles, but says no more.

Dwalin is grudgingly pleased when, days later, he sees Fíli showing Ori the basics of correct footing, and Kíli discussing ranged weapon tactics. When the two Princes come to him for sparing practice he makes a subtle sign to them, and Kíli goes off to cajole Ori into joining. It’s slower and gentler than normal, and Dwalin is sure if he causes so much as a bruise on the young lad than Dori’s glare shall burn through his skull, but it eases some tension in Dwalin he hadn’t felt in years. Since watching two young dwarves stumble around tents and human townships, heedless and defenceless.

Nori sidles up to him after, all grins and friendly gestures. “You know, if he comes to any harm in your training sessions, Dori and I shall kill you, King’s friend or no.”

It appears the brothers have a protective streak a league wide, and it does them some credit. To a point.

“You would rather he learns to fight with an orc as his teacher?”

They both keep smiling, and Dwalin takes a moment to admire the sheer amount of sharp objects Nori is concealing on his person. Like many in their company, Nori is a strange dwarf, and Dwalin tries his best to allow for their oddities – when they aren’t a danger. So when Nori shows him a flash of teeth and then seems to change the topic entirely he merely tries to keep up.

“The Princes are skilled fighters.”

“Aye.” He pauses. “Young, but they can hold their own.”

“And you taught them.” There is a certainty in that statement that Dwalin cannot decipher.

“Aye...”

They both look across the camp to the two in question, who are currently trying to steal some still-cooking stew from under Bombur’s nose.

“They seem kind. Generously so. Especially with Ori.”

Dwalin is no longer sure that the conversation they are having is the conversation he thought they were having. Balin has a habit of doing this to him as well; it is entirely vexing.

Nori continues. “They are mischievous, but not cruelly so.”

He feels he should contribute. “That is true enough. Their mother is not one to suffer cruelty in her children.”

“And she let you teach them?”

Dwalin gives the dwarf next to him a hard look. Blasted thief, not speaking plainly. “She deemed me suitable, yes.”

Nori nods, and between one blink and the next has sped to the fire and then out of Dwalin’s sight.

Dwalin wonders miserably if he’s just been duped.


	2. Sometimes He's a Storyteller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori is many things. Thief, sneak, disreputable stain on the family’s honour and constant nuisance to his older brother.
> 
> There are also many things Nori isn't. Kind is one. Truthful another. A dwarf like Nori can’t afford to be truthful. Truth makes you vulnerable. He will not let them be vulnerable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a 500 word quicky to accompany the first chapter, but Nori got away from me a bit. Sneaky blighter.
> 
> Criticism welcome, as always.

Nori is many things. Thief, sneak, disreputable stain on the family’s honour and constant nuisance to his older brother. Killer, sometimes (Only when necessary, only _ever_ when necessary. There are some lines he will not cross easily, not when he has to meet his brothers’ eyes when he comes home.). Loyal, always (Though it must be said he is loyal to few things beside family.).

The faces he shows the world change with the ease of fickle winds through the mountains, and he has a character for every occasion, a dozen smiles for every part.

There are also many things Nori isn’t. Kind is one. Truthful another. A dwarf like Nori can’t afford to be truthful. Truth makes you vulnerable. He will not let them be vulnerable.

“Nori!”

He watches Ori, the best of the three of them by far, as he tries to balance three bowls of broth on his arms. It’s amusing, and Nori may or may not release a chuckle (Ori scowls at him, teeth flashing, face echoing another, and isn’t that just a little bittersweet?) as he goes to help.

Ori sniffs, eyeing the broth. “Bombur says there’s rabbit in it. I don’t know that I’d believe him if I hadn’t caught some with Kíli yesterday. You can hardly see any meat!”

Ah, Kíli. Hm. Young, just a few braids, shaves for his archery. Impulsive. Privileged. Prince.

Nori might be a storyteller today.

“Eat it. It will fill you up.”

Ori tuts at him. “You sound just like Dori.” He does _not_. “‘Eat this. Drink that. Don’t forget to wrap up warm.’ I’m old enough to look after myself you know.” Ori’s impression is credible, and if the smile on Dori’s face as he clips his younger brother round the ear is any indication, amusing enough not to be offensive.

“Stop whinging Ori, and eat your food.”

“See! You two are becoming more alike every day.”

That they voice their displeasure with this assessment in unison doesn’t really help their case, and as his two siblings begin to gently bicker Nori takes his broth and walks slowly around the camp. It’s a bit heavy on the salt.

Ah. There.

“Master Kíli.” The Prince’s head jolts up, a grin already on his face. It doesn’t fall when he realises who it is, to Nori’s surprise. “Ori seems to have misplaced some of his gloves. You were hunting with him yesterday, and I thought you may have seen them.”

Ori has not lost anything, except perhaps to his brother’s sticky fingers. It’s all for a good cause.

Kíli looks almost devastated. “No, I haven’t. When did he loose them? Before we went hunting? I can help you look for them if you like.” Nori hasn’t time to reply before the Prince has turned around and started yelling. “Fíli! Fíli! Have you seen Ori’s gloves? Come and help us look for them!”

The three of them start to work their way around the camp, the two brothers eagerly searching every space that could conceivably hide a pair of knitted gloves, including at the top of a tree Ori would never even think to climb. Fíli is eyeing him suspiciously, as expected, so Nori drops a few lines about Kíli’s bow, and bows in general, and a particular bow and a particular dwarf and how there had been far too many feathers everywhere in the end. Fíli laughs, and Kíli asks him if he has any more stories. He does. Some of them are even true, though he doesn’t tell them that.

He weaves words together, a skill long practised, and slowly edges his foot through the metaphorical door. The tale that really gets him across the threshold is one about when they were younger, and Ori had been very meekly listening to some elves talk in the market when suddenly he joined in their conversation, entirely in Sindarin, and left them spluttering in utter outrage. The elves were apparently being very rude about dwarven fashion. Ori had known a lot of elvish curse words. Nori had gotten him an elvish book on botany for that. The elves hopefully hadn’t noticed its absence.

This mention of Ori seems to set Kíli off, and he spends the rest of the time talking. He could probably hold a conversation with himself should they leave him alone. A good deal of the talk is about Ori, or questions about Ori, or even answers to his own questions. Fíli rolls his eyes a fair amount, and it takes a while before Nori is able to steer the conversation to training. He almost wishes he hadn’t.

“Oh!” Kíli is enthusiastic about this as he is everything else. “Ori is doing quite well, I mean he’s got a long way to go, but his aim is fantastic already, and his footing isn’t bad, was he taught by you and Master Dori at all?”

Hah. If the Prince only knew. “Yes, we tried our best.”

“You did well.” Fíli is looking under a collection of rocks, but takes the time to look at Nori and nod. How kind. “He has the makings of a fine fighter.”

“Yes, even Mister Dwalin says so. He taught us you know.”

“Oh?”

The youngest of Durin’s line barely needs encouragement. “Oh yes, since we were very little. Our mother asked him to, as his family has always been friends with ours, and Mister Dwalin is easily the best fighter left to the Longbeards.”

“The best?”

Questioning Mister Dwalin’s skill is simply not done, if the look on the brothers’ faces is any clue. In truth Nori is well aware of his skill. This isn’t the first time he’s been in close quarters with the dwarf, though it is the first without bloodshed. So far. Nori’s not holding his breath that it will last long.

“I don’t think even Uncle could beat him.” Fíli shares a look with his brother, and something must pass between them – an ease of communication Nori has never managed with his own kin – as they then shake their heads in unison and turn to regard Nori. “No. Mister Dwalin is definitely the best.”

He must go carefully now. “Was he easy to learn from?”

The oldest brother nods. “Yes. He is strict, but that is necessary with weapons.”

“He always knew the right speed to teach us at.”

“We were always told _exactly_ how dangerous something was, and how much damage we could cause.”

“He is very patient. Which is especially good with the two of us.”

“I’ve never forgotten a lesson he’s taught us.”

“I have, but he always seems to _know_ , and makes sure to teach it twice.”

Nori lets them talk, and gets a good picture of ‘Mister Dwalin’. It’s a surprising contrast from the picture he has of ‘Chief Guardsman Dwalin’. Good.

By the time they ‘find’ Ori’s gloves in a thicket – he lets Kíli find them, just to observe the look on his face. It’s joyful – Kíli has managed to turn the talk back to Ori again. He should deal with this, but it can wait; he has something else to attend to, and enough information now to be getting on with.

He takes the gloves from Kíli, with his thanks, and leaves the two dwarves to wander on his own back into camp. He’ll hand them back to Ori later, with a suitable story that will no doubt be seen right through; Ori is too smart by half for Nori to get much past him anymore.

He nods at Glóin, who’s keeping watch, and lets his gaze drift over the camp.

Damn it. The great clot is talking to Thorin. He’ll have to get him away somehow; this can’t wait. Still, he should probably tell Dori first. He still has time.

His brother is packing up their bed rolls when he finds him.

“You have a moment?”

He is eyed wearily, and Dori goes back to packing. No matter.

“I have information –”

“You _always_ have information. Where did you get it from this time, eh?” They have not been able to talk without difficulty for many years, but this is too important for him to be put off by his brother’s venom.

“It’s to do with Ori.”

His brother turns to look at him now, willing to listen for the sake of their younger brother, and Nori takes the opportunity to sit down.

“He had a lesson with Dwalin a few days past, you remember?”

“Aye,” Dori’s face is fierce, “if that great troll hurts him is swear I’ll –”

“ _We_ will skin him and use it as a tarp, I know.” Dori snorts, perhaps at the unnecessarily gruesome imagery, but he lets Nori continue. “I don’t think that will be needed. I’ve spoken with several members of the company, and he is attested all round as a man of honour, a skilled fighter and an excellent teacher. You know I can even attest to some of that myself.”

His brother winces. “Goodness knows I wish you couldn’t.”

“Ori will be fine. And he could do with some training from someone other than us.”

“And what if Master Dwalin decides Ori is merely a copy of his older, renegade of a brother? I will not have him treat Ori as if –” Dori cuts himself off, likely not wanting to cause an argument on Nori’s career choice. Again.

Nori smiles at him, a genuine smile, certain that no-one in the camp is looking their way. A truthful one. It feels strange upon his face. “He won’t. I am about to have a conversation with the esteemed warrior, to make sure of it. Besides, I doubt he would have let him join the sparring in the first place if he thought Ori was a whit like me. Wouldn’t even have let him near the Princes. He is remarkably protective.” Dori laughs at that.

“You think that’s why he involved him, don’t you? You cannot believe he would be protective of a near stranger.”

“Look at Balin.” Dori does. “Not _right now_ , I mean in _general_. Do you think any brother of a man like that would not be defensive of others? I’d bet my share of the treasure the whole family is like it.” Dori tries his best to subtly eye Balin, despite his brother’s admonishment. It is painful to watch.

“What do you mean ‘a man like that’?”

It is a fair question. Nori pauses a moment to consider it. “Do you remember when Ori was younger, and more impulsive, and would tell off strangers if he thought they were being rude? Remember when we had to pull him off that guard who was being cruel to some dwarf matron? He got the bastard good.” Dori is trying to fight a smile, no doubt caught between remembered pride and horror at such rashness. Sometimes Nori thinks their younger brother got all the bits that were unbearable in his older siblings, like Nori’s aggression and Dori’s suffocating politeness, and somehow made them _good_. He has never worked out how the chit did it. “Well, Balin makes me think of that.”

There is an easy silence after that, and they both pack up the remains of their sleeping gear. Dori sighs when they finish.

“You always were a good judge of character.”

His eyebrows flick up into his hair. Praise? Ignore it, there are more important things. “So you agree then? We should let him train Ori?”

“Yes, yes, fine. But at the first sign of trouble from the bastard –”

“We bathe the camp in his blood, grab Ori and run, I know.”

Dori smiles at him, and claps his arm in one broad hand. “Ma would be proud of you, you know. For looking after him so well.” Nori doesn’t know what to say to that. Dori clears his throat. “I’m proud of you.”

“Oh.”

They sit there for a moment. Then Dori scowls at him.

“Don’t bloody screw it up though. I _like_ this feeling. Haven’t felt proud of you in bloody _ages_.”

“Don’t curse. Ori will hear you, and all his ideas of you will come crashing down.”

They are saved from any more awkward talk by Ori appearing, gushing about the hobbit’s knowledge of elvish lore and how lovely it is to have another scholar in the group. They chat for a while, all three of them, but Nori has a hulking warrior to threaten so he slips off after presenting Ori with his gloves and a farcical story about how he came to have them; if he mentions Kíli more than necessary, it’s just to gain Ori’s reaction, which is far too happy for Nori’s tastes. But he’ll have to deal with that later.

He has to talk to Dwalin before they break camp.


	3. Echos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She watches her second son, and sees in him the echo of something older.  
> That which was once older, and is now too young.

She watches her second son, and sees in him the echo of something older. It makes itself known in more than merely the darkness of his eyes, the raven’s wing that is his hair. She can see it in his movements, in his smile, wide and easily given.

“Amad.”

She hears it in his voice.

“Amad?”

That which was once older, and is now too young.

“Yes Kíli?”

Her son smiles at her, and a bittersweet pain fills her. “It’s time to go to the archery range!”

“Very well. Come, gather your things.”

Kíli is ahead of her, already prepared where she is slow. They leave the house, head south towards the woods and the targets set up there for aspiring archers. Fíli is not with them today. He is with Dwalin, learning to trap small animals; the separation was thankfully made with little fuss, but Dís knows that it is best to keep her son distracted. He looks to her, waiting.

“Go on Kíli. I am watching.”

He takes his stance and looses an arrow, and Dís gently gives criticism. Next time an arrow flies it lands closer to the centre of the target. They continue like this for a while, Dís sometimes demonstrating to better illustrate a point, calling to mind old memories of her brother with a bow in his hands.

“Amad.”

They had learnt together, her and Frerin. He had always been the better archer. The more naturally gifted.

“Amad?”

Like his nephew.

“I wish he were here Kíli.” She does not need to speak the name aloud for her son to know whom she means. “You are like reflections of each other, in so many ways.”

Kíli enfolds her in his arms, and they stand as statues for a moment. Kíli sniffs. They both ignore the tears that fall off skin onto grass.

She must continue. “But you shall be better than he was.”

He looks up at her, brows furrowed and eyes uncertain. “Better?”

“Yes. Better.”

They look at each other for a long while. Kíli is yet young, but he has heard stories and songs of Azanulbizar. Of a man like an eagle, flying with frightening speed across the battlefield, perching on rocks and the bodies of the enemy dead and bringing down orcs twice his size from twice the distance any other dwarf could manage.

Of a man Dís had found bloodied and split open under a mountain of those he had killed.

Kíli is young, but he understands.

“Alright.” He says.

They go back to practice.


	4. Novel Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bilbo was but a tween, the Brandywine had frozen. It would have been novel, under other circumstances.
> 
> Bilbo still laughs at it sometimes, hollow and mirthless. Novel indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't really feel finished, but I don't know what to put after it. I may edit it later, or post a second part.
> 
> The winter in this story is the Fell Winter, which is mentioned in the Appendixes. I don't know what the Baggins actually did. Criticism is welcome, as always.

When Bilbo was but a tween, the Brandywine had frozen. It would have been novel, under other circumstances.

Bilbo still laughs at it sometimes, hollow and mirthless. _Novel indeed._

The Brandywine had frozen, great mountains of snow had covered the Shire and for the first and only time Bilbo could remember his mother had made him wear shoes. He had laughed at her a bit, dangerously naive. He had thought it merely a Tookish fancy.

“Bilbo.” His mother’s voice was hard as tempered steel and Bilbo’s laughter stuttered and stopped. This was a command, not a request. Even his father had worn shoes, with not a sound of protest.

They were in Brandy Hall, visiting for a week or so to share winter cheer and warm cider with his aunt. They had not counted on the cold that had swept in from the north, and soon deliveries that were meant to keep the Brandybucks and their guests fed stopped arriving. So did visitors, and news, until they were all but barricaded in Brandy Hall. Bilbo told stories to the younger hobbits, while his father helped organise rations and his mother had harsh, hushed conversations with Gorbadoc, Master of Buckland.

Even then Bilbo had not understood the severity of it all. Not when Rangers had arrived on their doorstep, bearing food and ill tidings. Not when his parents had organised a party to go north with the Rangers. Not until Bilbo himself was out in the snow with several relatives, younger hobbits who had been told to stay inside and foolishly hadn’t listened, surrounded by eyes and sharp movements in the shadows and howls too hungry to be the wind. Bilbo had thought he was going to die.

Afterwards, surround by wolves’ corpses and far too much red, Bilbo had wept into his father’s knitted jerkin, his mother’s voice whispering safety into his ear and her sword buried in the snow beside them.

Later, in a nearby smial, shaking and miserable, Bilbo had listened with ten other youngsters to his mother as she told them in brutal, blunts truths exactly how stupid they had been. They had been wrapped in blankets and spare clothes and then crowded around the door, looking out to the front garden. There was a wolf there, huge and terrifying even in death. Belladonna had taken her sword and split its belly open, dragging its insides out onto the frozen ground, the snow staining red.

Her face was furious and bright, and she ignored the screams, shouted them into silence. “This is what you would have looked like had they taken you. Remember this.”

Bilbo did not think he would ever forget. Not the strange metal smell of blood, then of rotting as the intestines burst. Nor the riot of colour, so seemingly incongruous with death; deeps reds and blacks in the blood, soft browns and greys in the wolf’s fur, the sharp blue of its unmoving eyes. It was like looking at a tree in autumn, the leaves turned the colour of fire as they perished. It was all at once beautiful and horrifying, and as the echo of the howls played again in his ears Bilbo felt as if he might be sick, for the world was now too bright, too loud, the smells overpowering and cloying.

“They would have taken you and torn into you,” Belladonna stabbed at the neck of the beast, and blood splashed across her face. She looked frenzied, wild. “You would have been ripped asunder, and their teeth and claws would have _destroyed_ you, fools that you are to go wandering out in the wretched dark!”

One of the older hobbits spoke loudly over the crying of the young hobbits. “Belladonna, you are scaring them.”

“They should be scared. We almost lost them, our children, imbeciles, idiots, what made you think that the cold and the dark would be _safe_? Did you not listen to the stories at the knees of your elders? Do you not know why your doors are locked at night? You are Brandybucks, you should know better!” Her eyes locked with his, and Bilbo felt ashamed. He was the oldest, and though not a Brandybuck he was a Baggins and a Took. The latter gave him knowledge of adventure, and the former the sense to know when an adventure was going too far. He should have stopped them. He had almost gotten them killed.

“Love,” Bungo’s soft voice filled the desperate silence left after Belladonna’s seething words. “Let’s get this lot inside and fed. A good meal can do wonders for the constitution.”


	5. If I can Have the Younger One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, if I have the younger brother, you can have the older one.”
> 
> This prompted a muffled laugh from Ori, and a truly unique reaction from Dori. The noise especially was incredible.
> 
>  
> 
> Or - In which Nori is a troll (not literally), Ori is a shameless enabler and Dori endangers fine china.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea amused me. Make of it what you will.

They were sitting around their battered old kitchen table, drinking tea (Dori), knitting (Ori), and trying to draw the inside of his latest jail cell from memory (Nori).

Ori suddenly looked up, and gazed into the middle distance. Both his older brothers looked at him.

“Ori?” Dori prompted.

“If you could marry anyone in the world, who would it be?”

There was silence. Not an awkward silence, for they were used to Ori’s curious questions, but a silence of contemplation as they considered their answers.

“Well,” Nori said conversationally, “I think Dwalin would be an alright match for me.”

The silence took a strange turn. Nori shrugged.

“He’s fun to tease. And you should hear the way he roars when he can’t quite catch me, just imagine what he would sound like in –”

“Alright, alright,” Dori interrupted hurriedly. “We get the picture, thank you.” He took a sip of his tea.

An idea occurred to Nori. “Hey, if I have the younger brother, you can have the older one.”

This prompted a muffled laugh from Ori, and a truly unique reaction from Dori. The noise especially was incredible.

“Did you just – did you just _snort your tea_ , start coughing, and then swallow it? What was that? Can you do it again? Balin, though, he’d be a good match for you.”

Dori’s face was a peculiar shade of red, but he was still maintaining his composure. Nori was impressed.

“And how would you know that he’s a good match?” Dori asked. “What do you know about Balin Fundinson anyway?”

Nori made a show of scratching his chin. Ori was still giggling quietly to himself. “Well, I know he likes tea.”

“Oh?” Dori looked entirely unbelieving.

“Yes. I know because I stole the tea you’re currently drinking from him.” Dori stopped dead, teacup halfway to his mouth. “And the camomile. And that strange eastern brew you’re so fond of. Balin has a lot of teas. Had. Now we have a lot of teas.”

Dori threw his cup at Nori. It smashed on the wall behind him as he ducked.

No matter. He would acquire Dori a new one.


	6. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo, like any hobbit, will try his utmost to be a gracious host. But really, thirteen unexpected dwarves and one meddling wizard is enough to try any hosts patience, so Bilbo feels he can’t be blamed if he is still having trouble remembering faces and names.
> 
> So when one of the dwarves pulls their pony next to his in the line he is not surprised when his mind scrambles for a name and comes up with nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Bifur. A lot. Here is some lovely Bifur.

Bilbo, like any hobbit, will try his utmost to be a gracious host. But really, thirteen unexpected dwarves and one meddling wizard is enough to try any hosts patience, so Bilbo feels he can’t be blamed if he is still having trouble remembering faces and names. He has already called Glóin ‘Master Glowing’ on more than one occasion, and in a particularly embarrassing incident called Thorin ‘Master Oakenly’ which earned him peals of laughter from Fíli and Kíli (whose names he can’t get straight) and a fierce glare from the dwarven king.

So when one of the dwarves pulls their pony next to his in the line he is not surprised when his mind scrambles for a name and comes up with nothing.

“Good morning,” he says when the dwarf looks at him.

The dwarf responds with an unintelligible and harsh muddle of sounds.

“Uh, sorry, could you say that again?”

The dwarf looks exasperated, but repeats himself all the same. Or at least Bilbo thinks it’s a repeat. He can’t understand it any better this time either.

“I’m sorry, but I really cannot understand what you are saying.” At this the dwarf growls, and reaches across to grab the reigns of Bilbo’s pony and shake them. Bilbo is not impressed. “Now hold on, you have your own pony, you can’t just go around accosting other peoples!” A brief tug of war ensues before they are interrupted by a voice to their right.

“Bifur! What are you doing?” It’s the largest dwarf, Bombur, and while his harsh tone is initially directed at Bifur he is giving Bilbo a good glare. “What did you do, Master Hobbit?”

“Me! I didn’t do anything. He just came over and grabbed my reigns.”

Bifur (and Bilbo is really going to have to memorise all their names soon) is speaking again, more guttural sounds.

“Look, I really cannot understand you. Do you speak common? Elvish even? I may be able to understand if you speak some elvish.” He doubts he would be able to have a full conversation, but it would at least be better than this.

Bombur interrupts. “He can only speak the language of the dwarves Master Baggins. And an ancient dialect at that.” Bombur shakes his head, and a sad look passes across his face. “You won’t be able to understand a word he’s saying. Only a dwarf could, and sometimes it’s difficult.”

“Oh.” Bilbo doesn’t really know what to say to that. “Does he, er, does _he_ understand _you_?”

“Aye, sometimes.”

“Well then – I mean no offence – but could you possible convince him to let go of my reigns?”

Bifur keeps a tight grip on the reigns as Bombur talks to him, only letting go to make strange signs that the other dwarf seems to understand.

“He says you’re holding the reigns wrong.” Bombur tells him after a few minutes.

“That was awfully quick. I thought it was difficult to understand him.” Bilbo blurts out before he can think about it, and immediately feels a rush of heat to his face. “Sorry, terribly sorry! I don’t mean to pry.”

Bombur doesn’t look offended, but does look slightly suspicious. “Not always his words, but we have signs we can use. Maybe you should let him correct your grip. He’ll leave you alone after that.” Bilbo hesitates, and Bombur tries to reassure him slightly. “He’s just worried for you and the pony is all. Correct grip is important.”

Well, Bilbo supposes it can do no harm. Probably. If it does do any harm, he is sure he can just scream and Gandalf will come and see what the racket is for. Hopefully.

He need not worry, as it turns out, because Bifur is gentle and patient as he manoeuvres Bilbo’s hands to the correct positions. His riding does feel better after, and Bilbo thanks Bifur, trying his best to remember the strange words he gets back. He doesn’t know whether it means _you’re welcome_ or _stupid hobbit can’t even ride_ , but it seems good to make an effort for one who must be so isolated around anyone who’s not a dwarf.

“I’m not very good at riding.” He makes sure to look at Bifur as he says this, hoping that Bifur understands common even if he can’t speak it.

Bifur nods at him, and says something completely incomprehensible.

Bilbo laughs, and smiles a little. Oh well. Baby steps.


	7. Small Doses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Óin knows that the arrival of young Gimli is something to be thankful for.
> 
> He just wishes he could be thankful from a distance.
> 
> And not, for instance, just an example, be thankful while being repeatedly hit with a small wooden mallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just...was suddenly really desperate for Gimli and Óin family fluff.

Óin has been a healer his entire life. It’s not a pretty job, and dwarves are not always the best patients. He has the scars to prove it.

No. Really.

For a healer, being able to deal with the less-than-pretty bits is essential. It’s no good being squeamish when your hands are trying to hold someone’s leg together and your face has vomit on it and you really just wish you’d worn more waterproof shoes today...

He also has to deal with the young. He’s no midwife, but sometimes a second pair of hands is really needed, and he has to look at them after a certain age anyway so he may as well see where they come from. When they do get to that age that the midwife hands their care over to him, they’re no better than the adult patients. Worse, sometimes; Óin has a bite mark on his left eyebrow that he refuses to talk about, so mind your own bloody business.

Though, there are a few good points about the younger patients. Sometimes they can be cute, even endearing. And whether they’re paragons of their times or irredeemable rascals the absolutely best part, in Óin’s humble opinion, is that you get to _give them back_.

Hah. Let the parents deal with the blighters - *cough* - sorry, dears, for a while. Twenty minutes, that’s often all that’s necessary. Then they go back to their primary caregivers.

Adults don’t have primary care givers. More’s the pity. Óin knows a few regulars who desperately need one. What were they doing with the potato to get it stuck there anyway? Honestly, why didn’t they –

What? Kids might be reading this? Nonsense. What kid _reads_ when they have the whole of the blooming world to run round and tear up? And any kid that _does_ read is probably educated enough to know exactly where the potato went –

Alright, alright. No more potato stories. Fine.

Obviously never going to make it as a healer if they can’t handle a few potato stories –

Right. Children.

The point is, children are alright in small doses. Like that really special pipe weed from down south.

Óin wishes his brother didn’t have any. Children, that is. (The pipe weed is _medicinal_ , thank you.)

Well, that’s not entirely true. Óin isn’t one to visit ill will on family, and having children is a blessing from the Maker (So he’s been told) and he also knows that Glóin and Skalli have been wishing for a child for years. He doesn’t want to bemoan their happiness. The arrival of young Gimli is something to be thankful for.

He just wishes he could be thankful from a distance.

And not, for instance, just an example, be thankful while being repeatedly hit with a small wooden mallet.

“Stop it.”

Gimli ignores him. Óin thinks a bruise is starting to form. He tries to distract the boy with building blocks. Gimli picks one up, puts it in his mouth for a moment, the hurls the spit-covered wood at Óin’s face. Then goes back to hitting Óin’s leg with his mallet.

“Good aim.” Óin murmurs, wiping the spit off of his face.

They continue like this for a while, Óin trying to distract his nephew and his nephew foiling every attempt. Eventually he just takes the mallet away. Gimli looks briefly confused, and makes grabbing motions and meaningless sounds in the direction of his toy before he realises he’s not getting it back. His face crumbles.

Óin scowls. “Bother.” He’s not in the mood to deal with crying. Without ceremony Gimli is hoisted up into the air and carefully thrown up and down again as Óin walks the two of them round the room. “I hope your parents get back soon, lad. This isn’t doing either of us any good.” Gimli hiccups miserably. “Don’t be like that,” Óin tells him, “there are other things to entertain yourself with other than abusing your poor uncle.”

Gimli does not look convinced.

“Here,” Óin says, and points towards an old, fading tapestry. “This, this is my father’s. Your grandfathers. From Erebor.” Gimli hiccups again, but does at least look at the tapestry. As Óin talks to him, tells him of how Óin had been bundled up in the tapestry as their family had fled Erebor, Gimli even reaches out a hand and runs it over the pictures. Óin doesn’t know if the lad understands what he’s being told, or if he’s just intrigued by the faded colours. But at least the lad isn’t hitting anything.

Telling a story of the lad’s family is quite nice, too.

When he’s run out of things to say about the tapestry, he wanders over to a heavy, leather bound book, and tells of how when Gimli’s father was much younger he had spent a great deal of time with this book. First, using it to hit his older brother with when he thought he could get away with it.

“He did actually _read_ it eventually, though. I think.”

Gimli chuckles, and Óin is encouraged enough with this show of pleasure to keep wandering around the house, finding odd things to talk about: a shawl Gimli’s maternal grandmother has given to his mother, Skalli; a chair that a great cousin has once thrown a temper tantrum in, breaking all the legs off before solemnly repairing it; a beautiful clay vase that Óin’s mother dusts every day, proud of her fine craftsmanship.

When the house fails to be interesting anymore, he wraps the both of them up warm and takes Gimli to the market, where he proceeds to describe everything he lays eyes on while Gimli drinks up the bright sights and raucous sounds and strange, peculiar smells. As the sun falls toward the horizon he talks about the best cuts of meat at a butchers and the exact way to hold a throwing axe, which the shop keeper kindly demonstrates to peals of laughter from Gimli.

He makes grabbing motions toward it.

Óin shakes his head. “No, lad. Not till you’re older.” Gimli begins to wail as he’s taken away, and Óin grudgingly turns to the shop keeper. “Do you have any blunt ones about?”

He does.

Óin finds himself yet again on the floor, this time in a quiet corner of the weaponsmiths, guiding Gimli’s hands tentatively over the axe and absolutely refusing to let him put it in his mouth.

“Germs, lad,” he says. “You don’t know where the thing’s been.” Gimli gurgles at him.

When Óin is finally able to extract the axe from his nephew, the sky outside is grey and Gimli’s eyelids are drooping. He mumbles briefly as he’s picked up, but clings to Óin’s scarf all the same. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Gimli’s head drops gently onto his shoulder.

Óin is rather surprised to see two dwarves inside the house when he gets back. He forgot Gimli’s parents were only supposed to be gone an hour. Three hours ago.

“Oops.” He says.

Skalli snarls at him. “Oops is right, where have you been you beardless buffoon?”

“Now hold on a moment –” he starts to say, and looks to his brother for support. From the dark look on Glóin’s face, he is obviously not going to get it. “I just took the lad out! Hush now, he’s sleeping.” He says this just as Glóin opens his mouth ready to shout.

Ridiculous people. Babies need their sleep.

Skalli walks up to him and places a hand on her son’s head. “Sleeping? How did you get him to sleep? It’s usually a nightmare.”

“I just talked to him,” he hands the lad over to his mother, as careful as he can, “walked around, pointed things out. He dropped off just before we came back.”

“You can’t have just _talked_.” Glóin is indignant, but is at least keeping his voice down.

“You’ve just got to wear children out, brother. Give them lots of things to do.”

“We _do_ give him plenty to do!” Skalli whispers, then looks at Gimli to make sure he’s not stirred. “What else did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have.”

Óin thinks for a moment. “Axes.” He says. “And hitting things. He was very preoccupied with axes and hitting things. Like you,” he mutters turning to his brother.

“Oh,” Glóin says. He turns to look at Skalli. She turns to look at him.

“Axes.” They say. “Hitting things.”

After that Gimli is put to bed, and the three of them sit and share some warm ale.

Skalli coughs, not at all subtly. “Are you able to baby sit again, Óin? Tomorrow perhaps?”

More time with Gimli? “No, I’m busy at the clinic tomorrow, and with house visits and...no.”

He watches his sister-in-laws face fall. “That’s a shame,” she tells him, “Gimli probably enjoyed his day if he went to sleep so easily.”

Oh. Well.

“I’ve got a day off next week,” he replies, quite without meaning too. The others beam at him, and plans are made.

Maybe this ‘uncle’ business isn’t so bad.

*Cough*. In small doses.

Don’t laugh. He’s telling the truth. Small doses. He is.

Right.


	8. Are Congrats Really Necessary?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori walks back into the room, face a deep red and spine stiff.
> 
> Ori opens his mouth, closes it, and then makes a tentative start. “You weren’t gone long.”
> 
> His brother slowly turns to look at him. “Don’t go into our rooms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are all my ships showing? I think all my ships are showing.

There is a horrendous squawk, like a bird has found its way into the house and then died of mortification at the sight of the upholstery. (At least Ori thinks the upholstery might cause sudden death; the Laketown decor is not exactly to his taste.) Kíli splutters into his mead, and gives a series of coughing laughs as he levels himself out.

“What was _that_?” He asks no-one in particular.

Before anyone can answer him, Dori walks back into the room, face a deep red and spine stiff. His eyes boring a hole into the wall over their heads, he walks toward their table and carefully lowers himself back into his seat. He doesn’t speak.

Ori opens his mouth, closes it, and then makes a tentative start. “You weren’t gone long.”

There’s silence.

Ori tries again. “Something wrong?”

His brother slowly turns to look at him. “Don’t go into our rooms.”

“What?”

“Just don’t, Ori.”

“Why?”

Dori merely shakes his head, and grips his hands hard into the table edge. The rest of the group eyes him speculatively, but it is not enough of a curiosity to keep them from their cups. Except Balin, who gazes at Dori, then the hallway to their rooms, then up at the ceiling, where his own room is.

He clears his throat. “Dwalin said he was going to bed.” His gaze flicks down to Dori, whose hands have tightened. “Yet, he did not go upstairs.”

Dori nods slowly.

Ori gasps. “Oh,” he says, not fully understanding, then “oh,” again, when he does, then a final “ _ooooh_ ,” when the whole, horrific meaning becomes clear to him. He turns to his brother, and asks. “In our _room_?”

Dori just nods again. Bofur laughs, and raises a cup to the pair of them.

“Seems congrats are necessary, lads!” Arm swinging wildly, some of his mead splatters on the table. “Next round’s on me!”

Fíli stares at the spectacle, confused. “What are you on about? The mead was a gift.”

Before Bofur can reply, Balin clears his throat again. “It appears that two esteemed members of our company have decided to...take a kip together, as it were.”

There is a series of exclamations and shouts, and Ori is sure he hears ‘thought they hated each other’, which he can’t really argue against, before Dori slams a tensed fist on the table top.

“Can we not gossip about it like younglings, please?”

Ori has more pressing concerns. “Where are we going to sleep? I’m not going back in there.”

Next to him, Kíli perks up like he’s just remembered it’s his birthday. “We –”

Dori barely lets him begin before he interrupts. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But –”

“Out of the question, completely unacceptable.”

“I’m with Dori,” Fíli says, “ _no_.”

Ori is looking between the three of them, not entirely sure what is being discussed and whether he should be offended. “Excuse me,” he says, but quiets at a sharp glance from Dori.

“Don’t even think about it,” his brother grumbles.

But Ori doesn’t even know what they’re talking about! “Hold on –”

Balin hums and talks over him, doubtless trying to forestall a rather unpleasant argument. “They do have two beds.” He says, giving Dori a gentle look.

Ori’s brother only scowls. “Not you too! I would have thought you against the entire idea, Mister Balin. It’s entirely improper, and goodness knows what the boy’s uncle would think –”

“Oh come off it,” Kíli grumbles, “it’s not as if we don’t all know exactly what uncle’s doing right now.”

Ori might not understand everything that’s been said, but he understands _that_. He clips Kíli around the ear and scowls when the other dwarf gives him a wounded look.

“Watch your mouth. Bilbo deserves better than your rudeness,” he says.

Kíli sniffs dejectedly, but can’t hide a cheeky grin. “Yes love.”

Blushing to the tips of his ears and ignoring the cat-calls, Ori decides the best way to deal with Kíli is not to look at him.

Bombur guzzles his pint of mead and burps loudly. “Someone’s going to have to double up, and it’s not going to be us. Let the young ones share a room.”

Dori looks ready to hit someone. “Bombur –”

“Come now, Dori,” Balin smiles at Dori in a manner that Ori doesn’t think wholly innocent. “Fíli and Kíli can share, and Ori can have the other bed. And as my brother is...absent, there is a spare bed in my own room. You are _most_ welcome to it.”

Ori almost chokes on his mead. Well, at least he finally understands the conversation. He thinks he was better off not.

Dori’s face has gone back to the shining red of before. “Mister Balin –”

“Just Balin, please.”

“ _Mister_ Balin, I would really much rather wait until my brother is done mucking around.”

“That could be a while,” Ori says, and then shrinks into himself a bit when Dori whips a glare at him.

“The lad’s right. The dwarves of our line are famous for their stamina.”

Good gracious.

“Let me extend you courtesy where my brother is lacking,” Balin continues, “you might be here all night otherwise, and the beds in our room really are most comfortable.” Ori is sure that if Balin were on their side of the table, he would be squeezing Dori’s thigh by now, the irredeemable flirt. “And the view from the window is really most spectacular. We can open it, if you feel the room grows too hot.”

Ori thinks his brother might explode from embarrassment, and by Mahal he _really_ doesn’t need to be present for this. Bad enough he has had to endure it every night in camp, when there’s no escaping it. He tries to slip out of his seat, but a firm grip on his wrist stops him before he can even move an inch. Dori looks into his eyes for a split second, and it is a look that says ‘If I have to suffer such impropriety, so do you.’ Ori seriously considers head-butting him.

“I want to go to bed,” he says instead.

Kíli leaps out of his chair, and is immediately pulled down again by his brother.

“Alone,” he clarifies, much to Kíli’s disappointment.

Fíli shakes his brother, then leans across him to address Ori. “No worries, Ori mate, Kíli and I can bunk up.”

Ori’s heartfelt thanks is somewhat overshadowed by Dori’s own outburst.

“If our mother were here,” he begins.

Oh for goodness sake. “She’d tell you to go to bed with Mister Balin already, the way you two keep dancing around each other,” he shouts, and regrets it immediately. He wishes Nori were here to back him up, and then remembers that this is all Nori’s fault and wishes he would lose his underpants instead. Bloody brothers.

Dori just stares at him in shock. If only he had some paper and charcoal; such a look should be immortalised.

“Well,” Balin says into the awkward silence, “it seems we have been given our marching orders.” He gracefully lifts himself out of his seat, and then walks around to Dori where he bows deeply and extends an arm, as if they were two noble gentlemen going for an evening stroll. Dori looks caught between mortified and flattered. Balin continues. “Perhaps I might show you they way to my room, Dori?”

The rest of the invitation goes unsaid, but giggles echo round the room all the same. Ori watches aghast as his proper, prim brother straitens his shoulders and rests a hand cordially on Balin’s arm. He shoots Ori a look over his shoulder as they ascend the stairs, looking regal despite the snickering behind them. Ori doubts he will ever experience anything in life quite as shocking as this moment.

He turns to Kíli, tired beyond words. “Show me where my bed is, will you?” Kíli grins ecstatically, and Ori scowls at him again. “Not like that, honestly. I have some pride, you know.” Behind his brother, Fíli cackles.

“Seems you’re the only one of your family who does,” Kíli mutters.

When the sun breaks through the window come morning, Ori trudges downstairs and lets Kíli make him a cup of tea. It’s better than some of his previous attempts, for which Ori is immensely glad; it’s sweet to be waited on, by Ori has been spoilt by his older brother’s own brews. As he waits for his second cup (Whatever his other faults, Kíli at least knows how to treat a fella in the morning. No, not like _that_ , honestly,) his older brother appears from the hallway leading to their room, hair tangled and clothes askew. If Dori saw him –

Oh Mahal, he wanted to forget about Dori. Blast.

Nori glides over to him just as Kíli sets another cup of tea in front of him and gives him a searching look. “You two didn’t sleep in our room last night.”

Kíli, bless him, knows when to clear out. Ori will find him later, but now he sniffs, levels a scathing glare at his brother that he knows their mother would be proud of, and then pays a pointed amount of attention to his tea. “No, we didn’t.”

To his credit, Nori does wince a little. Ori still hooks his ankle around the chair his brother goes to sit down in though, refusing to show pity. Nori ends up leaning a hip against the table.

“Where did you sleep then?”

“With Fíli and Kíli.” Nori’s hand flashes to his waist. “ _In my own bed,_ thank you,” he adds before his brother can start threatening people. “They shared. And I’m old enough to deal with my own sleeping arrangements anyway, so stop it.”

Nori ends up smoothing down his over-shirt, and to someone unfamiliar with him it would seem as if that was his intent from the beginning.

“And Dori?” He asks nonchalantly.

“Well, that was more interesting.” Ori admits. He tilts his chin toward Dwalin where the other dwarf has emerged and is trying to master the tea strainer. “Went up with his brother.”

Nori practically trips himself up in his eagerness to lean closer, knocking over a chair and almost taking out Ori’s tea. When he speaks he sounds positively gleeful. “He did? The old fusspot actually did it?”

Instead of giving an answer Ori just stares, cogs slowly turning in his brain.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” He finally says. “You planned this whole thing! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Nori just grins. “Has he come down yet?”

“No, and I don’t want him to. Bad enough I have to deal with your after-glow –”

“After-glow?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Family shouldn’t have to be exposed to that kind of thing, you know, it’s indecent.”

“You just wait, Ori, when you finally rip young Kíli out of his clothes –”

“ _Would you shut up I’m waiting for marriage_.”

“– then you’ll understand why decency pales in comparison to a good, nice, _after-glow_.”

“You are disgusting.”

Nori continues needling him, and Ori does eventually let him sit down, even after Dwalin comes over and Nori leers at him and Ori kicks him in the shins and tells Dwalin to bugger off. To Ori’s surprise, he does.

He is saved much more embarrassment by the arrival of Dori. Well, not saved. Given momentary relief before being drowned by overwhelming mortification.

“Oh Mahal,” he says as his brother comes into view on the stairs, arm in arm with Balin “his hair is worse than yours.”

As Nori joins him in horrified gazing (though admittedly, Nori is more amused than horrified) Ori becomes distressingly aware of every other inconsistency in his brother’s appearance. His brother, who never leaves their house with a hair out of place, who never wears an unflattering outfit, and who _never_ looks less than perfect.

“That’s not his coat,” Nori says. Ori can only nod.

“He’s missing some buttons, too.” He adds. Nori snickers.

The pair comes to sit with them, and they spend a few moments in silence. Then Balin rises, pecks Dori on the cheek and announces, “I shall procure us some tea.”

As Balin walks away, Ori buries his head under his arms. He hears Nori mutter.

“Dear brother, you appear to have gained an after-glow.”

As they begin to bicker, Ori groans.


	9. Deep Blue Blanket

Sometimes, when the sky is a deep blue blanket wrapping around the horizon, he takes it and wraps it around himself. He gets out of his bedroll, and breathing in the star-speckled air wanders to the edge of camp, his pipe and the fire at his back a reminder of red warmth against the blue coolness of the night.

No-one ever wakes, nor does the chosen watch ever notice him unless he wishes it. He is a hobbit. He is tuned to the earth and every rough rolling hill and every secreted tuft of grass. In a town, perhaps, the changeling wood and stone may betray him, altered as it is from nature’s origins. But here, where Yavanna’s power is unhindered, he may as well be a wisp of air.

He stands at the edge of the dying fire’s sharp light, and watches the soft sunrise sweep across Arda laid out before him.


	10. Gehyuh

Thorin breathes a damp mist onto his neck, and Bilbo wonders idly how he ended up in the middle of this – this great befuddling bundle of dwarves.

He rather thinks it’s Kíli’s fault. Tricksy child.

Feet and elbows (at least he’s hoping its feet and elbows, it doesn’t bear thinking about otherwise) make a mockery of comfort. It’s an absolute miracle anyone is sleeping at all, and were it not for the cacophony of snoring he might not believe it. They are in a sheltered lee, and the overhang above them provides Bilbo with interesting viewing while he waits the night out. Water collects on the rim, and slowly drips off onto rock and soil, creating an almost-melody that Bilbo tries to put words too. The roots and creases in the rock above are a great painting, and he chooses the best flowers to strategically place to improve the colour of the piece.

He attempts valiantly to ignore Thorin’s breath upon his neck.

Honestly, it is just not conducive to a restful night’s sleep.

Bilbo wriggles a little, wanting to put some distance between him and the dwarf. Being surrounded utterly by _other_ dwarves, he is not very successful.

The air upon his neck breaks its regular rhythm, and Bilbo hears a sigh even as he feels it pass over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Go to sleep, burglar.” Each puff off air adds to Bilbo’s discomfort, and it takes a good deal of effort not to shiver.

“I am asleep.” He replies petulantly.

Thorin hums, tired and unresponsive. With no effort put into raising them higher than necessary, an arm and subsequent blanket are slowly dragged across Bilbo’s legs and middle before a hand finds purchase on his opposite hip. He is pulled close, the side of his body pressed tight to Thorin’s chest. An idle thumb brushes soft circles on his hip. A nose brushes against his neck, followed by a light touch of whiskers and a just-there press of rough lips.

Bilbo cannot suppress his body’s gentle shaking.

“Go to sleep, _gehyuh_.”

Bilbo does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Gehyuh', as far as I'm aware, is khuzdul for 'my dove'.


	11. As we to shadows turn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Goodbye,” he’d said to the towering mountain. Then he’d turned and left.

Thorin was dead. ‘Laid to stone’, they said. Gone, before Bilbo had even been found unconscious on the battle field.

He had not asked to see the body. Everything that was important about it had already gone.

“Goodbye,” he’d said to the towering mountain. Then he’d turned and left.

* * *

The journey back was harder that the journey there. Bilbo was not entirely convinced he’d make it.

Hobbits did not take easily to heartbreak.

* * *

He stepped foot into Hobbiton on a sunny July morning, feeling weary and thin around the edges.

Bag End loomed ahead. It was not empty as he had expected.

An auction. Well. It would save him some fuss and bother, at the least.

Whispers made their way through the crowd, and in but a few minutes Lobelia Sackville-Baggins thundered out the front door. She was, no doubt, personally offended that Bilbo had the tenacity to turn up after being proclaimed dead.

Her eyes fixed on him, mouth wide open, ready to bellow – then stopped. She must have seen something.

Her face turned pale, and her prized umbrella fell to the ground, silverware tumbling out upon the grass.

Hah, caught red-handed. Seems he was provided with one last bit of amusement.

Lobelia flew down the steps and grasped his arms painfully.

“Bilbo,” she said, “what is wrong?”

He merely smiled. “Nothing.”

She shook him, rattling his teeth and bones. “Don’t lie to me. I know the signs of a Baggins gone beyond caring.”

He stayed silent, his smile cracking. It was all the answer she needed.

“Stay here, with us,” she begged, all old venom forgotten.

Bilbo just laughed bitterly.

“No,” he said, “no. I think – I think I’d quite like to see the sea. Before I – well.”

Lobelia sobbed onto his shoulder, and he onto hers.

* * *

The hobbits sent him off properly, with all the ceremony deserving to one who was fading.

Old songs –

_“As we to shadows turn, forsaking sun and earth.”_

_There were no smiles. The notes beat bruises on his heart._

– a crown of anemones upon his thinning hair –

_Young Ponto Baggins asked him to kneel, then fitted it upon his head._

_“For sickness, Cousin Bilbo, and unfading love.”_

– and a skin of bitter red wine.

_“Don’t drink it all at once.” Lobelia told him._

_“I won’t.”_

Then he went west. He didn’t come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There seem to be more than a few fics toying with the idea of hobbits fading. Here's my two bits.
> 
> Anemone flowers were chose for their meaning in flower language: Forsaken, sickness (negative), anticipation, unfading love.


	12. He fell with a crash.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stone does not hit him.  
> In scores of alternative universes, on the arms of scores of alternative Erebors, it is different.  
> But here, the stone does not connect.

 

  _“The Eagles!” cried Bilbo once more, but at that moment a stone hurtling from above smote heavily on his helm, and he fell with a crash and knew no more._

* * *

The stone does not hit him.

In scores of alternative universes, on the arms of scores of alternative Erebors, it is different. The stone connects, and Bilbo falls unconscious to the hard ground. He lies there, unknowing of the flow of battle. Bofur is torn apart on the sharp rocks. Nori is peppered with arrows. Dwalin has his eye wrenched from its socket. Fíli and Kíli die by Azog’s blade, and Thorin is brought to his knees, grief-stricken and wounded.

But here, the stone does not connect.

It glances off his shoulder, bruises him. But leaves him upright. Merely clatters to the ground.

Bilbo shivers. A cloud passes in front of his eyes, as if it were an image that he cannot grasp the content of. He feels light headed for a moment. Experiences a second or two of vertigo, like the world is tilting beneath his feet. Then everything aligns again. His shivers disappear.

He looks at the stone, and something heavy settles in his chest.

The eagles continue their flight overhead, but Bilbo’s enthusiasm for them is gone. He turns away from the sky and instead looks toward the circle of defenders in the midst of the battle. The dwarves of the company can just be spied in the centre. They are too distant for their expressions to be made out, but Bilbo feels their fear for them as Azog’s group of mounted orcs gains ground. They are getting too close.

Bilbo stares at the rock again.

Then he puts on the ring and vanishes.

The world smears into shadows and ash. Grey and brown where before it was vibrant. Sound seems amplified, as it always does. He fancies he can hear the roar of Azog’s troop. The sounds of battle echo in his ears, brutal and violent. The scent of blood catches in his nose. He almost gags. But he collects himself. Sights the direction he must go. Pushes down the mountain’s flank.

The forms of elves, bright even in this shadow space, surround him. He ducks and twists between them. When he reaches the first spot of empty space he breaks into a run.

Groups of fighters press against each other, each trying to gain ground. To outlast the other. Bilbo ignores them as best he can. He has a goal. Everything else is incidental.

He must get between Azog and the company. The weight in his chest demands it.

An eagle swoops down and he ducks, rolling beneath its claws. As he comes up he spies wargs ahead. A great white orc sits at their front, atop a massive white warg. They are to Bilbo’s right still, and when Bilbo glances to his left he cannot see the company. Good. He runs forward, coming upon the group just as they pass before him.

He leaps. Rough fur provides a good grip for his hands. By the time the warg realises something is wrong, Bilbo has already plunged Sting into its hide. It rears, screaming, twisting to try and find its assailant. Azog bellows and fights to gain control of his mount. As the warg lands and tenses for another jump, Bilbo scrambles forward.

Pushing his blade through Azog’s back is easier than he expected. It makes an odd sound, too soft for such a violent act. Azog gasps. Loosens his grip on his mount. As his warg rears again, he falls. Bilbo is pulled with him. They thud onto the harsh ground. Bilbo’s head smacks onto the rock, and the world whites out even through the grey of the ring. Nausea rises in his gut. He barely manages to pull Sting free, and has to push down the urge to retch as he gains his feet.

Azog turns, middle red and bloody, face ashen. Slumps back to his knees and roars at his warriors.

None of them come to help. Perhaps they are too shocked.

Bilbo straightens himself as Azog searches in vain for him. His head is reeling, arms growing lipid. But he is able to raise Sting up and behind him. His left foot is placed forward, and he stares the great orc in the eyes. He swings.

It connects just as Azog begins to roar again. Slices cleanly through flesh and bone. Azog’s head flies clear. Blood erupts out and soaks Bilbo. The orcs around him scream.

He ducks and rolls as wargs and their riders flood inward. Scrambles to try and clear the group. He stumbles over a protruding stone and falls into a warg. It turns and snaps at him in a frenzy and catches his arm between its teeth. Its rider sees the warg has caught something and lets loose an arrow before Bilbo is able to even cry out. It pierces his leg, just above the knee, and snaps as the warg whips Bilbo about and he connects with its side. Bilbo slashes at it with Sting and runs off as it retreats. He ignores the pain in his arm and leg. He ignores the howls of the wargs. He tries to make for where the dwarves were last.

His enemy roars behind him, and he dare not look to see if they flee or follow.

It takes longer than it should to find his dwarves. The ground feels rougher below his feet, and his limbs more sluggish. A deeper grey than the ring should give his vision seeps in at the edge of his sight. Nausea rises and falls in rolls. He cannot breath.

Dwarves erupt out of the line of orcs before him, and Bilbo stops with a cry of relief. He can see his company. Just. His sight is...fading. He takes off the ring, and pushes through the fighters before their shock can fade.

He comes to a wobbly stop just before the company. It only now occurs to him that he may not be welcome.

He looks Thorin Oakenshield in the eye.

“Oh dear,” he says. Then the the smell of blood washes over him again in a wave. His own blood, he is sure. He chokes and vomits messily on the ground. “Oh dear,” he says again, throat raw and burning, left arm screaming. He doesn’t want to look at it but it swings unbidden into to his view as he falls with a crash to his knees. It is unrecognisable. Merely a mass of bone and blood and cheap cloth, cut off suddenly by the bright line of his mithril shirt. The shadows in the corners of his eyes grow. His head throbs. He can no longer tell which way is up or down, and between one blink and the next collapses. The ground welcomes him in a jagged embrace.

Voices echo in his ears. Briefly he registers a hand on his side. A pair of blue eyes appear before they are swallowed by darkness. People are shouting. They sound so frightened.

“Bilbo!” He hears, distantly, like the speaker is a long way off. Thorin. It must be.

Bilbo tries to respond but he cannot hear his own speech. _Thorin_ , he tries to say, but doesn’t know if he succeeds. He cannot feel if his mouth is even moving. His head feels numb. His eyes can only see blackness.

“Bilbo!” He hears again. It is the last. Everything fades.

* * *

The stone does not hit him.

In scores of alternative universes, on the arms of scores of alternative Erebors, it is different. Bilbo lives, there.

But here, others live, who would otherwise have fallen. The archers who would have felled Nori are already fled. Bofur never has cause to stand on the rocks that should have torn him. Dwalin keeps his sight. Fíli and Kíli stand by Thorin’s side as he is crowned, grief-stricken but woundless.

Here, Bilbo’s broken form is buried in the depths of Erebor. With Sting in his hands, with the ring about his neck, and with the Arkenstone on his breast.

Here, the stone does not connect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was sad to write.  
> Come and chat to me on tumblr if crying over The Hobbit is your thing: rabbitinthewoods.tumblr.com.


	13. Red cloth and dull iron.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stares him down.
> 
> “I am your eldest child.” She says, quiet but firm. “Your eldest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea so Bard's wife is alive, because forget that 'dead wife as backstory' rubbish.

Sigrid stands on the edge of the ramshackle camp, the screams of the wounded and the despairing rising and falling like waves on the lake’s shore. The air still reeks of sulphur and ash. Black clouds fill the sky over the water. She looks her father in the eye and feels something he has never made her feel; afraid. He is a dragon-slayer now, a hero, furious and bold. And now he wants to go to the mountain.

She stares him down.

“I am your eldest child.” She says, quiet but firm. She thinks of her mother. She is with her other two children, but Sigrid can imagine how she would speak to her husband. Gentle until stirred. As sure and dangerous as the tide. “Your _eldest_ ,” Sigrid repeats, and she says it with her mother’s voice.

Bard frowns at her, face blackened from the ash. “But still too young for this.” He says finally, turning away.

Sigrid does not let him go so easily. “And what,” she says, following his turning so he is forced to face her, “is _this_ , exactly? Do you know?”

Her father looks anywhere but her. “It is death.”

She feels like she might hit him. “I have not been too young for death for years. You forget I helped with births and injuries before Tilda showed her talent. Doing my _womanly duty_.” She adds, scorn clear in her voice, covering deeper emotions. She could kill as well as any man, but had been forced to face an enemy she couldn’t beat, time and time again. Tilda had a bravery in healers’ work that astounded, but Sigrid...

Give her a bloody blade over a bloody bed any day.

“This is a different death.” Bard says, looking at her again, eyes bright beneath the muck.

“Yes, a death I know how to face!”

“You know nothing.”

“I know my duty. I know that I should stand by your left side, shielding you, helping you lead.” She moves further into his space, greyed grass crushed under her feet. “Why do you fight me on this? Never have you held me back before. Never...” She trails off.

Her father’s eyes are bright, but not with anger as she had thought. With tears.

She touches her fingers to his cheek. “You are afraid.” She whispers.

They are still for a while, as her father regains his composure.

“Aye,” he says, voice choked. “I am afraid. This could be death for many, Sigrid.”

“I know death,” she says, soft and slow.

“Do you know your own?”

She has nothing to say to that.

Her father grips her hands as tears finally break from his eyes and catch on the ash on his face. “You ask me to put you in the path of danger. My own daughter!” He laughs, but it is hollow and mirthless. “What would your mother say?”

A voice from behind him answers. “She would tell you to do your duty, as you have always done.”

“Mother,” Sigrid says. They turn to her.

She looks small against the backdrop of the camp, bruised and filthy from the dragon’s attack. Her skin, darker than theirs, is covered in shadows of soot and mud and, on her hands, drying blood.

“My love,” Bard says, moving towards her. “Your hands.”

Satomi waves away his concerns. “Tilda and I do what we can for those that need it. It is not mine.” She takes her husband’s hands in hers, and something in Bard settles. Sigrid hates to disturb them from their moment of peace.

But she must. “Mother, I would go with father when he marches to Erebor.”

Her mother scoffs. “Marches! Such a violent word, for all it can be contained in parade grounds and children’s games.”

“This is a violent business,” her father says. “And I would not take my heir into it.”

“But take her you must.” Her mother turns to her, searching for something. “She is not a girl, but a woman. Old enough to marry, to have a child of her own, to die in the birthing bed.”

He shakes his head. “Death in battle is different.”

“Both are bloody, both are painful. How different can they be, truly?”

Sigrid all but runs forward. “I’d rather die with a weapon in my hand!” She bursts out.

“Don’t be a fool,” her father says.

“I’m not. Da,” she whispers, “I know my place. It’s with you. Like Bain’s is with Ma, keeping people here calm, and Tilda’s is with the healers, keeping them safe.” He looks unconvinced, tears still evident on his cheeks. She is close to crying herself. “People’s champion, they call you.”

He snorts, unhappy with the glory the people of the lake have tried to place on him. “Do not go into battle for glory, Sigrid,” he tells her.

She shakes her head vigorously. “No, go for the sake of others.” He pauses at that. “Da, you trained me with a sword and a bow. Why, if not for this?”

“I trained you for hunts –”

“This is more important than any hunt.”

He looks at her, clasps her shoulder. “Where you anyone else, I would take you.”

Her mother sighs, and grasps them both. “And that is why you _must_ take her. You cannot make an exception of your own child. You cannot. Once, perhaps. But if you truly wish to retake Dale, no longer.”

Her father sighs. “As a leader I cannot ask people to do what I will not, I know.”

Her mother squeezes her father’s shoulder and says no more. She does not need to. The set of her shoulders, the line of her lips, the firmness in her eyes; they all speak for her.

Sigrid waits, the silence almost painful. Her father stares at the ground. Thoughts move in him, but she cannot perceive what they are. She can only hope her mother has convinced him.

Finally he stirs. “Sigrid,” he says, “come. We must fetch some armour for the both of us.”

Sigrid sighs in relief. “Thank you Da.”

Her father laughs, a painful, brittle thing. “Do not thank me. This is not a gift. It is a curse that anyone should have to fight.”

“It is duty,” she says. “I fight where others cannot, I fight where I must. It is a gift that you let me do it.”

Her mother’s hand slips from her shoulders, and her father looks at her with an expression she cannot parse.

“You will make a good ruler one day,” he tells her, “if we get that far. Thank the gods you got your mother’s sense.”

Her mother chuckles, and they all move off to where they are needed.

The armour, when they find it, has to be bartered for and bribed away from the hands of the guards and the Master’s men. Sigrid breaks a man’s nose when he dares too close. The armour itself pinches even through several layers, and weighs down on her in a way that will one day be familiar and comforting, but for now is frightening. She buckles on her sword, and it feels like fire upon her hips. She imagines herself as slow moving stone, heavy and inevitable. Not even the water of the lake shall stop her.

Her father looks at her in red cloth and dull iron. His eyes are bright again, but this time he does not cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, I picked a Japanese name for Mrs Bowman;  
> Satomi; From Japanese 里 (sato) "village" or 聡 (sato) "wise" combined with 美 (mi) "beautiful".


	14. His breath catches.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It makes him think of the stories Satomi's parents used to tell, crowded round the table with a small worn map in the middle. Bard can picture it in Satomi’s old house, among the knick-knacks her parents had of another life. They’re all lost now, at the bottom of the lake.
> 
> He stares at the coat for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satomi is back (I may or may not have fallen a little bit in love with her hush.)  
> Here's the coat that inspired this piece: rabbitinthewoods.tumblr.com/post/72608961173/omgthatdress-visite-1890-the-kyoto-costume

Bard isn’t usually a man given to extravagance, but there are times where he’ll make an exception. This time it’s a gift, something he gets for Satomi after a few years in Dale. The city is reviving from the rubble, dust swept away and stones replaced and cloth covering those holes yet to be filled. It’s ramshackle, true, but no worse than Esgaroth ever was. Better, even. Brighter, lighter, a place a person can breathe without fearing who’s watching. They are attracting more and more visitors each day; some who want to settle, some who want to trade, some just on their way through to other places. Whatever their reasons, they bring commerce and they bring life.

Satomi spends a considerable amount of time working out how to encourage traders in particular to visit their corner of the world, which is how she comes across a few merchants from the area her ancestors lived in, generations ago. She invites them to the royal mansion for tea and talk. That is what Satomi does. Bard is gruff and compassionate and an odd kind of cynic who still wants the best for everyone, who tries to get people to rally together. But he would be a mite more lost without Satomi, who knows how to make his passion work, what information he needs to do all he wants to; all the various cultural quirks and how much this item costs from here versus from here and what that particular headdress means and why this group is not friends with this one. He might be the person people look to, but that’s just because he’s loud and persistent. Satomi is the one who actually knows what’s going on.

As she does now, sitting among these merchants who share her skin tones and the shape of her eyes. They have come over the Orocarni Mountains, from the side of the range that faces the sea. It is apparently full of pine trees and small mountain temples and hot springs and snow. They had to travel over one of several passes, then via rivers and the sea of Rhun. Satomi wants to make sure they know coming to Dale is worth their coin and time. Bard is letting her do her thing; trade talk is not his strong suit, he’d probably just get in the way. So instead he walks around the outside of the group, adding his weight to Satomi’s words by his mere presence. There is a collection of pieces the merchants brought to impress their royal hosts, so he browses among them. Mainly clothing, furs and soft silks and some very complex looking robes. Casually hung up in the midst of some coats is the one that catches his eye.

It’s beautiful, and even to his untrained eye he can see its quality. Pale white cloth, embroidered with flowers and patterns that to him look a bit like shells, the threads in soft red and blue and gold. Even the feather trim has a dash of colour, and he’s not sure how they managed that. He’ll have to ask someone.

It makes him think of the stories Satomi's parents used to tell, crowded round the table with a small worn map in the middle. They’d draw lines with their fingers just above the map’s surface, telling folk tales of warriors and spirits and monks. The mountains had featured prominently in their stories. They were where spirits built their castles, when monks went for solitude, where warriors went for rest. The coat looks like it’s stepped straight out of those mountain tales. Bard can picture it in Satomi’s old house, among the knick-knacks her parents had of another life. They’re all lost now, at the bottom of the lake.

He stares at the coat for a while.

“It’s not like I can afford it,” he mutters to himself, a phrase he’s often had to say. And then whacks a hand to his forehead. “You’re a king, you idiot.” He tells himself. Of course he can afford it.

He glances around the room, trying to spot his son. Bain inherited his mother’s political savvy, and Bard needs that right now. Bain appears from behind a servant, and Bard walks over and grabs him.

Bain raises his eyebrows, jumping a bit in shock. “Da?”

“Bain,” Bard guides him over to the coat as he talks, “you couldn’t do your old man a favour, could you?”

“Depends what it is.”

They stop in front of the coat, and Bard gestures to it.

Bain stares. Then looks at his father. Bard looks back expectantly.

“You need to actually tell me what to do, Da.” Bain says.

“I want you to barter for it. Get a good price. I’d just end up tripping over my own feet and paying double what I should.”

Bain snorts. “The white one?” He asks, fingering it gently.

“Aye.” Bard leans in, looking around furtively. “And be subtle about it, alright?”

Bain nods, a mischievous grin on his face. “As subtle as an elf in Erebor, Da.”

“What.”

“Exactly.”

His son’s obscure metaphors aside (Bard is sure it makes sense with context, but he really doesn’t want to know) Bain gets the coat for a good price, and even gets it wrapped in posh paper and a ribbon. Bard touches it gently, and places it on Satomi’s desk in their quarters. He’ll have to wait until they’re both free to give it to her.

Turns out they don’t get any peace until late in the evening. Bard is about to faceplant into the bed out of sheer exhaustion when he remembers the coat.

“Wait,” he says, almost tripping over himself as he turns around.

“Wait for what?” Satomi asks. She’s trying to untangle herself from her dress, her fingers sluggish with fatigue. “Don’t you dare go to bed in your clothes, you’ll ruin them.”

“Wasn’t going to,” he lies.

“Ha.”

“Wait,” he says again, placing his hands over hers and stopping their movements. “Just hold on a second.”

Satomi stops, and watches him with a touch of amusement as he stumbles his way over to her desk and then back with the package in his grasp.

“For you, love,” he says. He blushes, of all things, and tries to hide it by ducking his head. He feels like a teen again.

Satomi smiles like the sun. “Why are you giving me this? Is there an occasion?” She asks.

“No, no occasion” he says “I’m just able to finally give you what you’ve always deserved.”

He feels some trepidation as she unwraps it. The coat unfolds itself in her hands, soft and heavier than it looks. Satomi gasps lightly.

“Cherry blossoms,” she whispers, running the coat through her hands, “oh, and warrior’s helms!”

“Those are helmets? I thought they were shells.”

She laughs at him. “Oh you daft man. No, my great-grandmother had a helmet just like that from her youth as a mercenary. Oh. It’s...it’s perfect.”

Bard clears his throat, and Satomi busses him on the cheek, cupping his jaw in her hand.

“You daft man,” she says again, with such affection that the coat is quickly placed aside and forgotten.

The next feast-day Bard comes in a tunic of royal red and dour grey, his hair pinned back as much as it will allow and done in a tight plait near the bottom. Satomi comes with eyes and lips painted red, her hair threaded with fur and silver chains, done up high away from her neck. She looks like a mountain spirit who has adorned herself in snow and hardy winter flowers. Light catches on the gold in her hair and on her coat, making her glow like a star-daughter. Bard hasn’t got the words to describe how glorious she looks, but he doesn’t need them. Satomi has always been able to read such things off of his face.

“I love you,” she whispers to him between dances, and his breath catches in the flame of her radiance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The helmet is called a kabuto, and was worn by samurai. I genuinely thought it was a seashell until I looked it up, so don't blame Bard too much.


	15. Light filtering through scales.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is not here to plan ways to kill the dragon. He is here to...well; in truth he had no specific goal in mind. Mainly a niggling desire to see Bilbo. If he can, to work out what Bilbo is planning to do, where Thorin stands with him, and whether anyone is causing any trouble. Which, if Thorin is honest with himself, really means: is he going to eat anyone; is he going to eat Thorin; is he going to set everything on fire.  
> Nothing too strenuous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ages ago on tumblr I mentioned a dragon!Bilbo AU that was floating around my head, and this little idea is part of it. Even if I never finish the rest of it at least I can say I’ve written dragon smut. (I can't believe I've written /dragon smut./)  
> Post BoFA. For context, they only found out Bilbo was a dragon just before the battle. He never betrayed Thorin or stole the Arkenstone; things went south in a rather different fashion. (More of a 'holy Mahal our burglar's a dragon' fashion.) The two Bilbo are talking about when he says 'Only two will know what it means' are also dragons. Don't worry about it. It's not really relevant to the story.  
> Thanks for help on the Khuzdul translation of Thorin's letter at the beginning go to khuzdul4u.tumblr.com.

* * *

  _“Zurukaki – ulfatîn tashurrukaki uh danuk, danuk ‘îzun, danuk lukhud. Danuk mednehuaz mim ra magamul, ‘ekh ramim ni Melekûn-aburîn. Ashurur darûn arnâki Bilbo-az, arnâki sulnhôfukaz danukînaz.”_

_Thorin Murkh-belkulzurmaz ana namadhu Dís, Âfgalab Ze, G.G. 2941._

_“It was like – all about me was green, green scales, green light. The green of his small, round door far back in Hobbiton. Whenever I think of Bilbo, I shall think of that joyous green.”_

_Thorin Oakenshield, in a letter to his sister Dís, December 1 st, T.A. 2941._

* * *

 Thorin can see that this high up the mountain side Bilbo would be afforded some privacy, and a good breeze. Below, in the valley of Erebor’s arms, the air is clogged with the stench of blood and corpses. Although Thorin thinks that isn’t really what Bilbo’s avoiding. Thorin thinks he is, in fact, avoiding those that are still alive, still in possession of wagging tongues and sharp staring eyes. It must be getting tiresome. Of course, he may also be trying to remove the opportunity for someone to leap out of the crowd and attempt to stick a sword in his hide. ‘Attempt’ being the key word; Bilbo is no Smaug, but still has scales thick enough to turn aside all but the most deadly of weapons. With the black arrows all gone, Thorin thinks they would have to conduct a concentrated search through Erebor to find a weapon fit for the purpose.

Thorin banishes the thought from his mind. He is not here to plan ways to kill the dragon. He is here to...well; in truth he had no specific goal in mind. Mainly a niggling desire to see Bilbo. If he can, to work out what Bilbo is planning to do, where Thorin stands with him, and whether anyone is causing any trouble. Which, if Thorin is honest with himself, really means: is he going to eat anyone; is he going to eat Thorin; is he going to set everything on fire.

Nothing too strenuous.

He would rather have made this trip on his own, danger be damned, but he is King now. As such he has a guard dogging his every step. They are made up from some of Dáin’s folk who were uninjured, but Dáin seems to have neglected to also pick people who weren’t intimidated by Thorin; he has but to give them a glare and they do as he bids them, whether it’s sensible or not. Even now, as his injuries cause him to struggle up the mountain side like a child taking their first steps, none of them dare to come forward and try to help. They simply walk behind him, exchanging whispers between themselves and endeavouring not to make too much noise in their armour. Thorin is both gratified and annoyed. He will have to make sure Fíli and Kíli have more determined protectors. It would be no good if those two had guards they could walk all over. The chaos they’d seek to get up to...

Thorin pauses in his climb, gulping down air. Any estimates of the distance are confused by Bilbo’s unfamiliar size. If he were his normal shape it would be easier. This would all be easier.

As if roused by Thorin’s thoughts, scales ripple and ruffle along Bilbo’s spine. A second later his head rears up, his various protruding scales fluttering about. He looks to Thorin like a bird just waking from sleep, shaking out its feathers. Thorin starts forward again, and Bilbo appears to watch for a moment. Then he climbs gracefully to his feet and begins to move towards Thorin.

Some of the guards start to panic.

“Do not be afraid,” Thorin says, and makes a point of stopping and standing with his spine straight and breathing as regular as he can get it.

The guards crowd forward, at last pressured to invade his space and defend him.

Bilbo’s gigantic form moves fluidly down rocks, seemingly in no hurry. He is not moving with particular speed, but all the same he reaches them rather quickly. The guards tense, and Thorin carefully makes eye contact with the dragon.

Bilbo tilts his head and frowns. “You know, when it gets to the point where it’s easier for a dragon to come to you than for you to go to a dragon, perhaps you should take it as a sign to _not move_.”

The guards flinch at his harsh, familiar tone. Bilbo ignores them.

“I did not ask for your advice, dragon.” Thorin says, his ill temper getting the better of any plans for diplomacy as usual.

Bilbo snorts. “I do not recall you ever _asking_ for my advice, but I recall you needing it all the same.”

“If I do not ask for it, then I do not need it.”

“If you do not ask for it then it’s because you are yet again being a stubborn oaf. Or would you prefer I had listened to you and put you all back in your cells when you thought my _advice_ on our escape was too ridiculous?”

This proves too much for one of the guards. “You are speaking to a _King_.” She thunders.

Large brown eyes stay fixed on Thorin, but crinkle with a kind of sharp amusement. “As if I’ve never done that before. Now be quiet, the lot of you, I need to think.” The guards’ vocal discontent swells, but Bilbo ignores them. He places an eye level with Thorin, flicking his gaze about as if gauging something. “Hm,” he says, and Thorin can see him feeling his teeth with his tongue, “no, too soft to be picked up like a kit.”

Thorin’s grip tightens on his walking stick. “Too _soft?_ ” He grumbles. The guards grow louder behind him.

“Yes, yes, and my tail shall sway about too much –”

“Tail?”

And then Bilbo lines up his nose. “Got it,” he says, and moves his snout forward and down, until it is pressed up against Thorin from his toes to his head. “Hold on, tightly now, here we go.”

Thorin grips on to a prominent scale more in shock than anything, walking stick clattering to the ground and eyes widening in worry as Bilbo tilts and pushes and lifts, so Thorin is balanced on his snout. It must look ridiculous. Thorin is horrified by proceedings, but the words to express it aren’t coming to him, and the guards are all wailing like children. Bilbo turns, carefully, and begins to walk back up the mountainside. There is the sound of a shield, or something like it, bouncing off his thigh.

“Such dramatics,” he says, but Thorin gives no answer.

He easily outpaces the guards, boulders larger than Thorin posing no obstacle, and when back at his resting spot curls up as before, his right hand side facing the world and his left privy only to himself. Very gently, he lowers his snout and places Thorin’s feet on the ground, letting the rest of him slip slowly off. Thorin is bracketed by the hobbit’s – by the dragon’s arms, and chooses to slump ignobly against Bilbo’s right forearm, his rump hitting the floor. Distantly he can hear shouts in Khuzdul and Westron.

“I do wish your guards would stop shouting,” Bilbo informs a dazed Thorin. “I’m not going to eat you. Honestly, if I were I might as well have done it down there. A few guards will hardly stop me.”

“How reassuring,” Thorin says.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Tell them that.”

That obviously seems a capital idea to Bilbo, so he lifts his head over the curved bulk of his tail and looks down upon the dozen or so dwarves below.

“Don’t worry,” he shouts, “I haven’t eaten him! I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.”

That seems to be all the reassurance they need. The shouting stops, and Bilbo reappears looking amused.

“Rather trusting lot, aren’t they.”

“Perhaps ‘easily intimidated’ is more accurate,” Thorin says, wondering whether they’ll stay where they are or go to report the King’s kidnapping to someone.

He stays quiet while Bilbo turns his head this way and that, advancing and retreating. Finally Bilbo accomplishes whatever obscure goal he had, and his head slowly closes in on Thorin in a very deliberate manner. Thorin thinks it must be a precisely chosen angle, as Bilbo’s various protruding scales are safely directed away from Thorin, and Bilbo’s massive jaw perches just shy of Thorin’s feet.

“Are you trying to avoid crushing me?” Thorin asks.

“What of it?” Bilbo says, huffing in amusement at Thorin’s indignant look. “You are fragile in comparison, you know. Necessary precisions must be taken.”

Thorin mutters. “Fragile.”

“In comparison to a _dragon_. Were I something else it would be you who would be moving so carefully.”

“That does not much sooth the jab.”

“It was not a jab.” Air rushes out of Bilbo’s nostrils in a snort, swirling round his enclosed frame like a momentary whirlwind. “It would not be a jab to call a rock fragile next to a mountain, would it? Still, I am sorry if you’re feeling are hurt.”

Thorin almost leaves it be. But the mannerisms are too familiar. “You are as peculiar as ever. That is a relief.”

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”

The sun is low, and even were it higher it would still catch on the mountain and her arms. So while those further down the valley are enjoying a mild autumn afternoon, the plains before Erebor are already dipping into a subdued twilight. Occasionally a brighter shoot of light will reach through, crawling through gaps in the rock and bouncing off armour and faces and the River Running. It had glinted off of Bilbo’s scales quiet enchantingly when Thorin saw it from a distance. Now he is closer and what before was beautiful is currently almost beyond words. He is enclosed in a high hedge of green-bound muscle, shadows twisting near the ground like whorls in wood, light filtering through scales as if they were leaves on ancient spring trees. The scales are almost black in the shade, but the light brings out a hue that calls jade to Thorin’s mind. It suits him better than his red jacket did. Better even than the faded blue coat that matched the colours of Thorin’s line in a way that enticed temptation.

Bilbo is still adjusting his head by increments, and Thorin wants to say something of the light. But the situation is too bizarre.

“Your door was green.” He says instead.

Bilbo chuckles, and adjusts his head again. He sighs, and all his scales seem to fall flat against his neck. As flat as they ever go. “Indeed it is. What a thing for you to remember.”

“It seems a good thing to recall.” Thorin trails his eyes over the ridge of bright green scales on Bilbo’s spine. “There was goodness, in that place. They are a gentle folk, the people you chose.”

“That they are. I have rarely known better.”

Thorin’s throat closes after that. He has never been one for quiet words not of war.

But Bilbo is. As mad as it is to think that now. “How is everybody?” Bilbo asks, a merciful thing.

Thorin breathes in relief. This is quantifiable. Injuries, treatments, locations. No hint of esoteric green light. He can do this.

He relays what he knows. Most of it is boring. Nori lost some teeth biting into the helmet of an orc who tried to headbutt her. Balin is going to be limping for a good long while. Bombur thundered through the enemy, and has a hundred small wounds to show for it.

Bilbo hums and grumbles in the right places. “What about your nephews? And yourself?”

Thorin shifts in discomfort. “I am fine. Fíli and Kíli will recover, though they were more reckless than I would have liked.”

“I saw them during my fly-overs. They seemed to be trying to personally fight every orc, goblin and warg on that battlefield. It was most worrying.”

“They suffered for it some. Fíli’s left leg has broken below the knee, and Kíli’s shoulder will never be the same. His injury was worsened.” It had started leaking a grey ichor when he’d been freed from his armour and clothes. The entire tent had dived into a panic. “I yelled at them both for so long I was sure I’d lost my voice.” His throat clicks, and he looks away.

“Reckless kits.” Bilbo looses his breath in a gust of warm air, and it swoops over Thorin.

He tries not to shiver. “Even the elf berated them.”

“The elf?”

“The red-head.”

“Ah, Tauriel. Yes, I saw her too. What odd fate that kept her so close.”

He is able to chuckle at that. “Odd is not the word I’d use.”

Bilbo laughs, and this time Thorin does shiver when the warmed air hits him.

“Are you cold?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin almost blusters his way through a denial, but when he pays attention to it he perceives the presence of the chill in his fingers and the stiffness of his limbs. He is shivering for more than one reason, then.

“So it would seem,” he offers rather than any firm answer.

He doesn’t expect much more than a comment on the cooling season. Instead Bilbo shifts his shoulders. Two large wings stretch out, and Thorin would swear he can almost hear the tendons creak. The wing facing the outside of their...huddle, or whatever it is, reaches forward and twists about Bilbo’s long tail and to his thighs. The wing facing the inside fans out over a larger space, covering over Thorin’s view of the sky and touching every point of the circle Bilbo has made with his body. Within a few moments the outside world is entirely obscured and the space left to them tinged with warm green. Thorin thinks that’s it. But Bilbo proceeds to take a slow, deep breath. His snout is not facing Thorin straight on, but even so he can spot a glimmer of growing light leaking out from between his lips and teeth. It stops before Thorin begins to worry. Nothing more extravagant than a candle flame, if he imagines he were elsewhere. There is the slightest sound of crackling, like someone throwing fat on a fire, and the smell of warming embers. Bilbo lets out his breath in a gentle stream, and Thorin would swear he could almost see the heat folding over itself, building up and up until if he didn’t know better he wouldn’t think them outside at all.

Bilbo brings his efforts to an end before it grows too warm and resettles his head by Thorin’s feet.

“It seems a dragon is better than any hearth,” Thorin says, unsure whether he is glad or pained by a dragon seeking his comfort.

Bilbo chuckles. “Only if a large enough space can be found to put us. I would be little good like this back in Bag-End.”

He isn’t sure what wild notion takes him and puts the words into his mouth. “You should show Fíli and Kíli. They would think it remarkable.” That he could take the idea back! But it is too late. Bilbo is already turning the words over, eyes narrowing in thought. It strikes Thorin as a particular kind of absurdity that he can still recognise the same expressions on a face so different. Even now he can follow the uncertainty as it creeps over Bilbo’s features.

“I wouldn’t have thought they would want to see me.” Bilbo says.

Well, he’s gone this far, so he might as well give the rest of the truth as he sees it. “If Fíli wasn’t bed bound and Kíli wasn’t so concerned about keeping her there then I’ve no doubt they would have come to see you already. The moment Fíli thinks she can walk they’ll be up here badgering you, unless the whole of Dáin’s army endeavours to stop them.”

Thorin can see Bilbo relax in stages. “Sounds just like them,” he says, and Thorin nods in agreement.

“Aye. Reckless and foolish.”

“They’ll grow out of it in time.”

“I hope so. I did. Or so I had thought.”

Laughter wings around their scaly huddle. “Thorin Oakenshield, reckless and foolish? Stubborn perhaps, and determined beyond what anyone can reasonably ask, but still sensible in your way.”

“You give me too much credit.” He drops his gaze, the space in him that still harbours paranoia and fear hating the fondness prevalent in Bilbo’s eyes. “I almost doomed us all.”

Whatever rebuff he fears doesn’t come. Bilbo is quiet for a spell, save the sound of his breathing.

“You did not doom us,” he says, “not even close.”

Anger rises up in him, and he knows it is perhaps an unfair reaction, but he cannot stop it. “Do not try to absolve me! I would have thrown us all on the spears of those at our gates if it had meant the treasure was safe.”

“If it had meant your home was safe,” Bilbo interjects, “your heritage, in gold and cloth and stone –”

“Maybe at first. But so soon I fell from that to greed.” Bilbo makes a sound as if to disagree. But Thorin does not let him. “What do you know of it? What do you know of greed, the primary failing of all dwarves? What could you _possibly_ know?” He is shouting by the end, and after the last word has burned through his throat he gasps for breath.

Bilbo has picked his head up from the ground, and the scales on his neck and spine have all peaked. They shudder every few seconds, but otherwise there is no sign of emotion from the dragon.

Bilbo’s lips part slowly. “What do I know of greed?” He says slowly, as if pondering an academic query divorced from their own situation. “Well, I was born with it. Designed with it. All dragons were.”

He feels a fool. “I did not mean –” he starts, but cannot continue.

“I know,” Bilbo whispers. “I know. It’s alright. Let me finish.” He clears his throat. “That which I was made for, I learnt to overcome. That which I was made to never know, I learnt until it was so solidly a part of me that you would never have thought I was otherwise. I think, sometimes...well, how much do you know of history? Of Morgoth?”

“Not a lot.” Thorin confesses. “It was taken from us while I was still young. And too few remembered it to teach me.”

Bilbo nods. “You have it back now. Well, in many ways Morgoth was similar to Aulë, who you call Mahal if I recall correctly. And sometimes I think we – that is, dragons – were made to be a monstrous parallel to dwarves. As orcs were to elves, and trolls to ents.”

“We are both greedy and fond of caves, you mean.” Being compared to dragons, to vile lizards, is not how he thought this conversation would go. To have Mahal and Morgoth called similar!

“Well...I would rather say we both have the potential for greed. I do not think dwarves were made greedy in the same way that dragons were.”

He scoffs, and thinks of every tale he ever heard that damned his people. “What brought Durin’s Bane to Khazad-dûm, if not greed? What brought Smaug to Erebor, or the dragons to the Grey Mountains, if not greed?”

“You know, the elves are very fond of pointing out everyone else’s flaws while ignoring their own. The Noldor especially.”

“What?”

Bilbo sighs. “I mean it was the Noldor who purchased the mithril out of Khazad-dûm, wasn’t it? Were they greedy too? And didn’t the men of Dale and the elves of Mirkwood profit from Erebor’s wealth? No-one ever blames them.” He nudges the end of Thorin’s left foot with his snout. “Don’t swallow Noldorian lies. I made that mistake for a while. Your people are not _greedy_. They are damn good at what they do, and prosperous for it. And I can tell you, and you know this is true because I was there at the beginning of these things, that the creatures of Morgoth and other evil beings most of all hate that which is successful and happy and good. It was not the dwarves that killed those people and sacked those kingdoms. It was dragons and Durin’s Bane.” He pauses, and Thorin fights tears pushing at his eyes. “If any elves or humans or, spirits forbid, bloody Gandalf tells you otherwise you let me know and I shall correct them and then promptly eat them.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Eating people will not go down well.”

“I suppose not. But I shall threaten it.”

“But none of this excuses my actions.” Not a word of it, for all Bilbo’s intentions.

Bilbo snorts, and the air ruffles Thorin’s hair and clothes. “Then you are lucky I was not yet finished. You were _ill_.”

The air seems to grow thick. “Ill?”

“Rivendell wasn’t the first I had heard of gold sickness.” Bilbo backs away, gives Thorin some space. “It was sung of to me in my nest, though by a different name. I didn’t think it touched any but dragons till late in the Second Age, when tales came out of the dwarven halls of strange changes in their leaders.”

“If you have a point, say it and be done. I will not suffer being called kin to dragons much longer.”

The claws of Bilbo’s left paw curl and cut into the rock. But the right, against which Thorin leans, remains curiously still.

“That is not what I said,” Bilbo bites out, “and I shall let the insult slide.”

“It was no insult –”

“Do you know what that mountain could do to a dragon?” Bilbo interrupts. “What it did do to you? I was made with a dark space in me fit for avarice and blood. Morgoth fashioned it with deliberate intent. And in the Second Age, I think his servant did the same to the dwarves. Your grandfather’s _ring_ ,” he says, when Thorin continues to keep his face blank, “was no gift. Ask Gandalf of it. It was a trap. And it was a trap that your ancestors dwelt in for so long that I fear its poison sunk to your marrow.”

“The madness of the line of Durin.” He has lived in fear of it all his life. “You think it a – a creation? It has always been with us. It always will.”

“No. There was no whisper of it before the rings. None.”

“How can you know this?”

“Because I am old enough to remember. Because I know the symptoms well. I could smell it on you as easily as I smell it on myself. It grew when we came to Erebor, twisted with Smaug’s taint. I could taste the strangeness of the mountain beyond his foul corruption, and it led to us. Only Bofur, Bombur and Bifur were free of it, being neither dragons or of Durin’s line.”

Thorin does not know what to say. He is staring at a point on Bilbo’s jaw, mind a whirlwind. Tears fall down his face but he barely registers them before they tumble to his lap.

“Did no-one tell you this?” Bilbo asks, gentle now. “I would have thought...I thought you knew.”

His throat clicks as he speaks. “No.”

A dark scaly jaw sways toward him and away. “It will fade. It already is. You never bore the ring, and Smaug’s influence will disappear as your people return.”

“My niece and nephew.” His head bows forward of his own volition, but the sobbing is unbidden.

A rumbling sounds from deep in Bilbo’s throat. “They have it less than you. Where you burn red they are softer. It will grow less with time. Do not fear.” Thorin flings a hand forward and latches onto a scale. “Please,” Bilbo whispers, “do not fear.”

His other hand fumbles for Bilbo, who pushes his face as close to Thorin as he can get. Green fills his blurring vision, and his hands feel smooth scales, hard in places and in others soft as old leather. He cannot stop his tears.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, and nothing else. Instead a crooning starts up. It pitches and sways, oscillates between humming and a deep rumble. Almost like singing. It’s Bilbo. Thorin all but wails, and grips the sides of Bilbo’s snout as it turns to face him. The scales rub against his hands. Tears end up hidden in the dips and gullies of Bilbo’s dragon skin. He coos, his stream of sounds strangely comforting to Thorin. Like a parent’s cradle song. Something warm besides the dragon-made heat. Bilbo’s snout nudges at him, presses gently against his coat. The song settles down into his bones. Runs along his veins as heat, pushes warmth into every edge and corner, pulls a comforting blanket about his senses. All that is left is Bilbo’s snout, his dark scales, and the wall of sound.

He doesn’t know how long they sit like that. It could be an age. A timeless moment of dragon song and warmth. The crooning is so loud that it must be heard across the mountainside. Eventually it dims, and a light that Thorin hadn’t noticed growing in his mind dims with it. Reality is a harsh and unwelcome arrival. The stones reassert themselves beneath him. He tastes Bilbo’s breath as he gulps down air. Shivers race through him, and he curses as they pull at his wounds, walls torn down too far to hide it.

“You’re hurt,” Bilbo says then, the hum rolling out his throat as he pauses. “Why didn’t you say you were hurt?”

Thorin keeps shaking, his sobs subsiding. “It is nothing. You were wounded also.”

“Only a little –”

“I almost drove a sword into you myself,” he whispers, like it’s a shameful secret. It _is_ , though he wishes it wasn’t. It would be easier if Bilbo were wholly his enemy.

Bilbo keeps humming. “I was expecting you to. This must all be very confusing for you. But don’t try and change the subject.” He takes a deep breath, and Thorin can hear annoyance filling his next words. “I can smell the blood and the pain Thorin, but I thought it was only the residual scent of battle. I was stupid enough to think that you would not come if you were not well enough. Fool me.”

“It is nothing.”

“Shut up Thorin.” He turns his head, traces the tip of his snout over Thorin’s chest and just breathes. He exhales a puff of heated air over Thorin, and seems to steal himself. “Dragon saliva has quite remarkable restorative properties,” he says quietly.

Thorin says nothing.

Another puff of air. “I can help, Thorin.”

Bilbo turns so he is eye to eye with the dwarf, and therefore catches the odd look Thorin levels at him. “Are you saying you can bathe me, like a cat?” Thorin asks. He wipes his hands over his face, clearing away the evidence of his grief.

“That is not quite how I’d put it.”

“How would you put it, pray tell?”

“Well,” there is a difficult moment where he tries to clear his throat and hum at the same time. “I could lick you better, perhaps.”

There is an awful beat of silence – save the quietening hum – and then Thorin starts laughing as uproariously as his injuries will allow, tear tracks still staining his face.

Bilbo doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Well, I admit that’s not much of an improvement.” He says, a chuckle hidden behind his words.

Thorin unthinkingly pats Bilbo’s snout, like he might have once patted his shoulder. He pulls his fingers away as if burnt, and clears his throat. “Restorative, you say?”

“Yes,” Bilbo replies, letting his discomfort pass without comment.

It is a ridiculous idea. Disrobing, and letting a dragon lick him? (Letting Bilbo lick him.) He isn’t safe as it is, surrounded by the great lizard. (He will never be anywhere safer.) But to show such vulnerability? Preposterous. (So very tempting.)

But there are others more in need of the medic’s valuable time than he. It is that which decides him.

“Very well,” he says, and begins to carefully shuck his muddied overcoat.

“No armour?” Bilbo asks as Thorin moves on to his cotton shirts and the leather belt that holds them all together.

“No.” It only now occurs to Thorin that he never even considered putting it on when coming to meet Bilbo. He refuses to examine why.

The layers fall away, and the heat Bilbo has suffused the space with keeps him from growing too cool. Soon he is bare to his waist, only his bandages left to remove. It is done so carefully, inch by inch, for he is afraid to damage his wounds with their unwrapping. First, his arms are bared, then he removes the deep red bandage around his neck, then he takes off the highest of those round his chest – there are so many bandages that by the end he loses count, and is only just able to coordinate them into specifically arranged piles so that he may know where to reapply them later.

“You are a ridiculous fellow,” Bilbo tells him when he is finished. “Look at yourself. Enough wounds to look like you’ve been on a butcher’s block! Does Óin know you’re here?”

Thorin doesn’t answer, which is as good as admitting guilt for Bilbo.

“You are going to be in such trouble when you get back, and I shall thank you not to bring me into it. I don’t want an irate healer making his way up to browbeat me.”

“You are a dragon,” Thorin feels compelled to point out.

“Oh yes I’m sure that will put Óin off. It’s not like he’s ever given advice to the Master of Laketown on how to deal with his pimples in a room of thirty people, or, spirits forbid, lectured an elven lord on personal hygiene.”

A grin has to be fought off. “No, off course not.”

His blasé response does not impress, and he is treated to a sharp puff of air that buffets his hair. Then Bilbo is moving, his large jaw falling open to reveal a plethora of teeth and a huge red tongue. It unfurls like a banner in the wind, rippling outward to meet Thorin, stopping just as it touches gently on a collarbone. Bilbo halts a breath, and Thorin carefully does not look at his teeth, then the tongue trails along his front from shoulder to shoulder. Thorin makes no sound or movement in protest. Just tries to scrub at his face again.

Bilbo must take this as leave to continue. He presses his tongue more firmly against Thorin and draws it down and around an arm; every inch is covered, and where saliva meets his wounds there begins an odd tingling. It is not unlike the feeling Óin’s concoctions make. Things continue much in this manner. Bilbo even pushes his tongue down Thorin’s back, tilting him away from Bilbo’s paw and lathering everything. It is all oddly pleasant. Bilbo’s tongue is rough but not painful, damp but warm, and its pressure is a firm reassurance against Thorin’s flesh. He is sure his wounds are healing already, and even if they are not, this is a singularly remarkable experience. One which he will never confess to another being, obviously.

Bilbo’s efforts reach Thorin’s waistline, and he presses ineffectively at the band of his trousers. There is a huffing sound, exasperated if Thorin had to take a guess. Slowly Bilbo’s tongue retreats, resting Thorin back against Bilbo’s leg before it curls back into the dragon’s mouth.

“Your trousers are getting in the way,” Bilbo informs him grumpily.

It takes a moment for him to process the sentence. “Pardon?”

“You’re injured below your waist, I’m sure of it, but I can’t get to the wounds while you’re wearing trousers.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

Bilbo eyes him as if it’s all very obvious. “Take them off, clearly.”

Thorin stares at him, waiting for a punchline.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Bilbo says, which isn’t a punchline at all.

“Very well,” Thorin says after a moment. He has to stand to rid himself of them, and finds a hand placed on Bilbo’s snout for balance before he can think on it. Heaving himself up proves a tad difficult; his limbs have gone pliant and soft with his treatment, and he has to place each foot carefully lest he tumble. Off come his trousers, then his undergarments and stockings and so forth, until he is as bare as the day he was born. Everything gets kicked aside into a pile – save the bandages, which are carefully arranged with the others – then he slowly seats himself again.

Bilbo starts anew almost the instant he is down, curling his tongue around his broad back and hairy legs. Thorin takes a second to wonder how he got here from his pained rage on the battlefield, looking up at this treacherous form flitting about the sky. But Bilbo decides to trail the tip of his tongue over the soles of his feet, and he is distracted by trying valiantly not to shift away, amused by the barely-there tickle. Inch by inch he feels himself yield, compliance seeping through his frame. Bilbo peruses round his ankles and behind his ears and over the lids of his eyes. He dips down to Thorin’s thighs, and in that instant Thorin catches his eye.

He does not tense, but he can feel a blush flowing up his neck. Bilbo’s tongue, wet and firm, presses under him and cups his arse. Thorin deliberately does not break eye contact.

Well, this is unexpected.

Bilbo’s nostrils flare and he breathes deeply with Thorin still seated on his tongue. He growls lowly, then begins to hum again. It is a different flavour from earlier; less comforting and more visceral. It shakes Thorin, and his bones burn. Thorin, never afraid of saying no, says nothing. Bilbo’s eyes show him the moment this registers. His tongue bends and peaks and presses between Thorin’s cheeks. The rough flesh rubs against him, and his breaths grow shallower.

Bilbo’s tongue seems done with its careful ministrations; now it searches over Thorin’s skin, curling around his limbs and dragging over the plane of his belly and the twitching tendons of his neck. Bilbo’s snout seeks greater closeness, and Thorin is glad he is a smaller dragon than his kin as it means he can get close indeed. Bilbo sweeps down again, teasing the crease between thigh and hip. Thorin jolts, tilting his head forward and tentatively grasping scales. He strokes gently, and the heated dragon song grows a touch more fevered.

Bilbo works out parts of him that are sensitive; the dips of his collarbones, the small of his back, the crease under his knees. All are exploited until Thorin can hardly keep still, throwing his head back against Bilbo’s foot. His hands pull on scales, and Bilbo begins to lick with more focus between his legs. He groans at the sensation,trying to press forward and hook his legs onto something, wanting to thrust, but Bilbo just pushes him back and keeps up this gentle friction. It’s almost agony, how close he is. Muscles tense and tremble. He is sure he is leaking even now. Bilbo’s tongue manages to curl around his cock and he just twists. Thorin’s nerves sing. The dragon song reaches fever pitch.

He bites onto scales and keens and spills all over himself, and Bilbo gives a roar loud enough to shake him. His tongue slows, curls around him and laps up every drip of Thorin’s seed. Warm air is blown onto Thorin’s heated flesh and every rivulet and trail of sweat is licked up. Thorin has to release his teeth from Bilbo’s snout, and his head lolls back. Every part of him is loose. Every part of him is content.

His throat feels raw, but he is able to speak. “They will have heard you, down in the camps.”

Bilbo chuckles and pushes his snout against Thorin’s heaving chest. “Let them. Only two will know what it means, and they will not gossip.”

Thorin cannot help but laugh. He brushes a quivering hand over warm green.

Bilbo’s wings flutter briefly, letting in cooler air. “Was there something specific you actually wanted to talk to me about?”

He thinks, but all his focus is taken by the dragon in his lap. “You know, I don’t recall.”

They say little else. Thorin continues to run his hands over beloved scales; he can admit they are that now, beloved, even if they are also still frightful. A discussion for another time, perhaps. He hopes, now, for that other time, where before he pretended he did not.

“You should go,” Bilbo says after a while, reluctant and slow. “Your people will be wondering if I didn’t eat you after all.”

Putting on his bandages is slow and mildly painful, but it is a pain seeming dulled by his languid euphoria. He probably does a hash job of securing them. No doubt Óin will have words with him later. Dressing again is faster, if unwanted.

“I am not much inclined to go,” he tells Bilbo.

Bilbo only huffs, and flicks his tongue against Thorin’s face. “You can visit again.”

“Maybe you should be the one to visit.”

“We shall see.” It is not a promise, but Bilbo has a smile and a joyful air about him, which suggests he shall consider it.

He places his snout downward, flush against Thorin’s chest, and waits patiently. Thorin only hugs it for a while. But eventually he grips onto convenient scales and Bilbo lifts him up once more. The trundle down the mountain is sedate, if still ridiculous, and Bilbo places him in front of the guards with gentleness and grace. Thorin still wobbles a bit, holding onto Bilbo until one of the guards awkwardly comes forward and hands him his walking stick.

Bilbo rakes his gaze without forgiveness over every guard present.“Hold onto him. If he gets injured on your account you’ll have me to answer to.”

The guards, every one, bow and make earnest – if muttered – reassurances.

Thorin watches Bilbo, magnificent in the fading light, as he walks back up the mountainside. Only when he has once again curled into a green ring does Thorin turn down toward the camp.

“Come,” he says to his retinue. “We have much to attend to.”


	16. Called first for his mother, but then for his master.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had loved Morgoth, in the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just transferring one of the dragon!Bilbo bits I had on tumblr over to here.

There are yet a few of them that survived their master’s downfall and did not flee into the Wastes. The Noldorion tales that make up the bulk of elvish history will tell that they were the ones who were never fully devoted to Morgoth’s cause, who wavered from the first and found the inspiration for their defection in the bright raiment and noble deeds of those High Elves who returned from over the sea. The Noldor are rather too fond of writing history in their favour.

Should anyone ask him, which no-one ever does, Bilbo would tell them the unfiltered truth. That he had loved Morgoth, in the beginning. That when he had clawed his way out of his egg and the warm reds and blacks of his shell had given way to visions of thunder and ice he had called first for his mother, but then for his master. Who had picked him up, gentle as only he did, and had gazed upon him with the eyes of the void in deepest love. He had not spoken, for Bilbo would not have understood the words, but within Bilbo’s mind he had placed images; joy for his birth; hope for his future; pride for his mother; for all the mothers; for every being he had wrought.

The Elves will tell of how Morgoth had placed the bulk of his power in his creations and in his land, and how that had been his downfall. They will label it folly, idiocy. Yet Bilbo wonders if it is jealousy that prompts them. Perhaps, if the Valar had not failed them so, if they had put some of their power into the beings and the places they claimed to love, would the Elves have instead looked at this as Morgoth’s one redeeming feature? A commonality between him and his estranged brethren? Bilbo doesn’t know. Thoughts of his master are now all tangled up, conflicting, drawing on sources that he cannot reconcile. He doesn’t feel like he knows anything anymore. But in the beginning?

The Elves may keep their false histories. The Valar their unfeeling distance. Bilbo knows how things were.


	17. Two ladies in leather.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final leather is dark as her hair, the jacket panelled and bound with a thick belt, the gloves fingerless and studded on the knuckles, the boots large and lethal looking. Then Truda calls forth the jewellers, who bedeck her in what much be their most dangerous looking items.
> 
> Satomi regards herself in the mirror. A woman of Dale, dressed in the fashions of Erebor.
> 
> “It is...striking.”She says.
> 
> Truda nods. “Lady Dís wanted us to capture a specific aura.”
> 
> Or;
> 
> Satomi and Dís wear leather and get their pictures painted.

[(Look here for what inspired this piece.)](http://ellethinthewoods.tumblr.com/post/83521624095/martinvanger-rinko-kikuchi-jalouse-china)

* * *

 

She is not sure how she feels about the wig. It sits atop her head, hiding an intricate set of braids that hold her own hair close to her scalp in a way she did not think possible, given its thickness and length. But if she did not know, or where she a stranger looking on, she would have no inkling that the short, asymmetric wig was not indeed true hair, styled with scissors and a razor. It is a dramatic departure from her normal look, and its unfamiliarity makes her uneasy. Of course, she will bow to the expertise of the dwarves; they have trained for this, spent decades among bolts of cloth and boxes of jewels and cases and cases of carefully wrapped hair, so they know what they’re doing. But still.

She gently clears her throat. “It is shorter than I anticipated.”

A small woman answers her. “Indeed, it is short. Such is the fashion.”

“Hm. You are sure, Truda?”

Truda laughs. She is broader than her fellows, and dressed in a simple robe of pale red, hair a sturdy plait down her back and beard a mirror down her front. But Satomi knows not to let the woman’s apparent plainness fool her. Truda heads up the assorted tailors, jewellers and hairdressers with an air of confidence and a smooth amicability that betrays her station. She pats Satomi on her elbow and looks with her into the full-length looking-glass before her.

“It is a newer style thought of by more adventurous dwarves. Short and sharp, my mother would say. It is very popular now, especially within circles of spice-masters and tea-makers.” Truda says. “Is it not so?” She adds, turning to the rest of the assembled dwarves.

There is a babble of eager agreement. Satomi is not entirely reassured, but she relents.

The leather, though.

“It is a lot of leather.” Satomi says, which in itself is not a comment one way or the other, but suggests more subtly and more politely than an outright statement what her feeling on the matter are.

But Truda only says “Yes”, and no more.

So Satomi puts on leather trousers, and a jacket, and gloves and boots and so on, turning and moving and taking off and putting on until Truda is content. The final leather is dark as her hair, the jacket panelled and bound with a thick belt, the gloves fingerless and studded on the knuckles, the boots large and lethal looking. Then Truda calls forth the jewellers, who bedeck her in what much be their most dangerous looking items. There are huge loops that pinch her ears, starting from the lob and moving up in ever increasing size, unsubtle and unashamed. Next come bracelets and rings thick with irregularly shaped stones that sit heavily on her wrists and fingers, clinking and rattling and marking her as though she is a poisonous snake scaring off predators. And the masterpiece is a necklace made of many chains, with silver spikes and dark grey beads hanging down, the whole thing crowding together and pooling between her breasts until it appears a hunter’s trap set to catch wandering fingers.

She regards herself in the mirror. A woman of Dale, dressed in the fashions of Erebor.

“It is...striking.”She says.

Truda nods. “Lady Dís wanted us to capture a specific aura.”

A thought occurs to Satomi. “Truda, how old are you, if I may ask?”

“Seventy-five this summer past, my lady,” Truda tells her, beaming. “Of an age with all the rest here.” The surrounding dwarves nod and offer their own ages with pride. Fifty-three, eighty-two, one just under ninety.

 _Dwarven teenagers,_ Satomi realises, _I am being waited on by dwarven teenagers._ Not an older head among them. It shows.

“A remarkable achievement, to be so skilled at so young an age.” Satomi says, to the great pleasure of Truda and the others. Meanwhile she tries not to squirm in her leathers.

But perhaps she is being too quick to judge her apparel. When she takes time to look at each item individually, then as a whole, she begins to see the appeal. Beneath her leather jacket is a gorgeous red velvet top, soft on her skin and the precise shade of her house colours. The leather is rather like stylised armour, a very dwarvish piece indeed, and while the jewellery may be a bit much it certainly completes the look.

Their efforts complete, Truda hands her off to another set of dwarves who escort her to the Lady Dís’ chambers. They are not far away, and soon Satomi is ensconced in a warm room, walls lined with tapestries depicting battles, birth and lovemaking in equal measure. Some of the scenes would be enough to make Bard blush, she knows, but she looks on them with fondness. They are beautiful, exquisitely made and rendering truly interesting scenes from dwarvish history and literature.

A side door opens, and Lady Dís comes in, spying her instantly and walking over. She nods as she looks over Satomi.

“Yes,” she says, “very dwarvish.” Dís herself is dressed in something not dissimilar, all dark material and heavy jewellery.

“So I thought, too. You have a new tapestry I see,” she says, pointing to the addition to Dís’ collection. It shows a scene of who she can only presume are Mahal and his wife, Gimizhbuznâl; they are drawn abstractly, taking on the aspects of tree and root, earth and rock, entwining together in an intimate embrace. All about the border sits floral of every description mixed with a dozen different gemstones. Sometimes it is hard to tell apart the two: an apple or a ruby, a sunflower or a cut lion-stone.

Dís smiles softly. “A piece my youngest found for me. It reminds me of the fertile lands we knew to the east. It reminds him, I think, of the Shire.”

“And of its people, too?”

Dís nods, her smile turned sad. Kíli had taken Bilbo’s leaving very hard, Satomi knew.

“I received a letter not two days,” Dís says, with no question of who it was from, “in for the first time he called me sister. Two years of patience paying off. May it be that I shall persuade him to visit one day.”

“May the gardener hear your wish,” Satomi says.

“So I pray every day.”

Dís waves her over to a pair of low, cushioned chairs. As they sit Dís calls for her attendants, who usher in the two artists for whom this whole endeavour has been done. It certainly isn’t for Satomi, who sits slightly uncomfortably in her ensemble and would rather she were here in one of her robes. But the end result shall be pleasing, no doubt.

They are given tea and sweets while the artists set up their tools and sketch rough likenesses of the Queen and the Lady, preparation for the paintings proper. Dís tells her more of how her sons are doing, and Satomi details the latest poor fool who thought Sigrid would swoon like a clichéd damsel, and they laugh about obnoxious nobles and grumpy kings. There is a little posing and posturing as the artists bid, and at one point Dís goads her into taking a drag from a pipe of odd herbs brought up from the Sea of Rhun, which sets Satomi to coughing and Dís to laughing. But for the most part they are allowed to sit and chatter, the artists skilled at working unobtrusively. It is a pleasant way to spend a day.

The finished paintings surprises her, when she sees them a week later. It looks good in a way she did not expect.

“I told you,” Dís says smugly, “good, reliable dwarvish fashion. Aren’t you glad I persuaded you to sit with me for them.”

“I find I am, which I know you are going to be insufferable about.”

“You wound me!”

“Hardly.”

They bicker warmly as they look over some of the rougher sketches and wild, half-finished paintings that accompany the main piece.

Satomi picks up one of the rougher paintings, on a small canvas that sits easily in her hands. “I like this one,” she says, “for all the strange tobacco was atrocious.” It shows her, pipe in hand, sitting cross-legged with a mildly perturbed look on her face.

Dís snorts. “You merely cannot hold your smoke. But it is a good likeness. You look very dwarvish.”

“Is that how you must judge all things? On their dwarvishness?”

“Of course.”

Satomi takes the smaller picture as well as the main one. She debates with Bain for a whole four hours as to where they should be placed. In the end one goes into her personal receiving rooms – the one with the pipe – and the other in a corridor of their royal manse next to a carving of a Rohirric fertility spirit. They make an odd pair, but if nothing else they will give guests something to talk about.

King Thranduil in particular is affected. They come across it one day while she is walking with him about the manse. He appears traumatised. His son gets a very odd look on his face, and Satomi is told later by one of her servants that he was heard not-so-subtly asking the librarian about scrolls on dwarvish fashion, a pink tinge on his cheeks. Thranduil, meanwhile, looks at her worriedly for days, and keeps bluntly asking if she’s lost all respect for her wardrobe; Satomi is convinced at one stage that he’s going to wrap her in his long cloak and take her off to Mirkwood to have a dozen paintings of her in flowing elven gowns and bark-like armour commissioned, just to assuage his own distress.

Satomi tells Dís all about it when they next meet. Dís is almost in tears, her mirth at the Elvenking’s expense unbridled.

“Maybe I shall accept,” Satomi tells her between giggles, “and start a very specific, fashion based war for my favour.”

Dís roars with laugher. That very day she sends Satomi another three paintings of her in dwarven garb. Thranduil looks sick when he sees them.

She thanks Mahal for his children, and offers the Elvenking some Ereborean tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Gimizhbuznâl' is khuzdul for 'the wild gardener', a name for Yavanna, wife of Aule.


	18. Big deal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli just followed her around the table. Stubborn woman. “How can I not make it into a big deal?”
> 
> "Here’s a clue: don’t talk about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A resposne to an ask meme prompt on tumblr. The prompt was from tagath: 'don't make it into a big deal (Ori and Kili, as friends or lovers as you prefer)'

They were having, as it were, a bit of a tiff.

"Don’t make it into a big deal." Ori said, trying her level best to ignore Kíli and get to making some tea. She didn’t really want tea - the house they were in only had nettle, and she wasn’t over fond of it - but she needed something to make her look busy. It was easier to avoid arguments if you looked busy. Meant you didn’t have to look the other person in the eye.

Kíli just followed her around the table. Stubborn woman. “How can I  _not_  make it into a big deal?”

"Here’s a clue: don’t talk about it."

"Ugh,  _you.”_  Kíli balled up her fists, the image of a frustrated child. “Why do you have to be so -  _so_  -” She cut herself off, biting on a hand and turning away.

Something heavy caught in Ori’s throat. It felt like a salty pebble, and it wouldn’t budge even when she swallowed. No tears,  _no tears_. “No, go on. I’m so what?”

Kíli shook her head.

"I’m so what?" Ori repeated.

"Precious," Kíli finally said.

Oh, the cheat. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

"No, but it’s the truth."

"Precious." She abandoned trying to make up some dratted nettle tea and went straight for where she knew the biscuits were. "Precious! What, like china? Like crystal? Pretty to look at but worthless in a crisis?"

Kíli, when Ori caught a glance of her, looked distraught. “That’s not what I meant -“

"It’s what this argument is about, isn’t? How I can’t, I can’t ha-handle myself in a fight." No tears, no tears. Biscuits.

"You could though! You could, you just need a bit of training." Kíli moved toward her slowly, arms spread out.

Ori batted at her attempt at an embrace, and moved back round the table. “I’m fine in battle.”

"You tried to use a  _slingshot_  against a  _warg_.”

"That’s not my fault, normally that would have worked."

"You had to borrow someone else’s weapon in the goblin tunnels -"

"Didn’t you see? It was Dwalin’s hammer. Can you lift Dwalin’s hammer? I was amazing with that hammer."

"That was adrenaline, you wouldn’t be able to lift that normally."

What.

"Excuse you," Ori said, "but I could."

Kíli sighed. “No you couldn’t, love, you -“

Ori didn’t let her finish. She gained a good grip on the large, human-sized table in the centre of the kitchen and  _lifted_.

Kíli’s mouth was hanging open.

"This," Ori said "is at least as heavy as you are. More. The Laketowners know how to work wood, I think."

"Uh-huh."

Ori smiled slowly. “Dori can rip someones head off if she gets a good grip.”

"Uh-huh." Kíli was looking a little red.

"And Nori can do this thing where she punches a keyhole  _out of a door_  and - Kíli? Are you alright.”

The red deepened.

"Kíli?"

"I just, uh, I mean. Um." She cleared her throat, eyes darting away like she’d been caught looking at something she shouldn’t.

"Are you…" Ori wan’t quiet sure how to phrase her question. "Does this…um."

Kíli muttered something to the floorboards.

"What."

She lifted her eyes to catch Ori’s gaze, flitted away, then back. “I, uh, like…strong people.”

"Oh." Ori said. She thought about it a while. "Good."

Kíli’s blush seemed to be invading her hairline.

"I would like it very much," Ori said slowly, "if you would kiss me. Then I would like it if i could show you what else I can lift. And then," she said, watching with delight as all of Kíli’s skin lit up like a firefly at night, "we can finish this argument."

Kíli spluttered. ”Right, right.” She hurried towards Ori, oblivious to the table still suspended in the air. “I’ll just - I’ll just get right on that.”


	19. Privacy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Meleth nín, when I said I wanted a to spend time with you, alone…a romantic day for just us.”
> 
> Tauriel’s smile is like the grin of a fox. “Yes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to an ask meme prompt. The prompt was from little-smartass/linxcat: 'Arwen/Tauriel (I'd never considered them together before you mentioned them but YES omg) and "this isn't exactly what I had in mind"'

There are, Arwen thinks, many places they could have gone. Up to the falls, where the Bruinen toppled out of the mountains and into the gorge below. Over into the moorlands of Eriador to take the air and wonder at the beauty of  _Ivon._  Her  _ada_  may even have given them permission for a longer sojourn to Lothlórien. Oh, to show Tauriel the grand mallorn trees of that golden forest would have been a joy!

Currently they are not in any of these places.

The stone wall is uncomfortable beneath her, true, but she shifts more from discomfort born of nerves than stone. Her words must be delivered carefully. “ _Meleth_ _nín_ _,_  when I said I wanted a to spend time with you, alone…a romantic day for just us.”

Tauriel’s smile is like the grin of a fox. “Yes?”

"This isn’t exactly what I had in mind."

The grin shutters closed, and Arwen recalls several choice words her father doesn’t know her grandmother taught her.

"I do not regret these moments with you." With a grace made brittle by worry she leans forward and wraps her hands around Tauriel’s own. There is little in the face before her that she can’t read, so the bite of a lip, the scrunch of a brow, they are as plain to her as speech.

"You are hurt by my words," Arwen says.

"I - no."

"Tauriel, your features tell it to me." Her love is stubborn, and turns her eyes away from Arwen’s gaze. So Arwen leans forward, slow as a glacier, and places a soft kiss upon her beloved’s cheek. "I am sorry," Arwen says, and gives another brush of lips on weather-rough skin. "Let me make amends."

She does not relent with her affections, and soon is rewarded with a giggle, then another, louder, bolder, until Tauriel is outright laughing under her attentions.

Arwen runs her nose along the leaf-edge of Tauriel’s ear. “Am I forgiven?”

"It is a poor apology, I think, but it shall suffice."

In an instant Arwen has reared back in mock outrage. “A poor apology!”

"Indeed." Tauriel’s fox grin is firmly back in place. "I shall teach you a better one." Her hands dart like vipers to bury themselves in layers of cloth, finding rounded muscle with ease. She bears Arwen up with a laugh and drops her into her lap.

Arwen is sure her cheeks are the hue of fresh strawberries. “Ai! Tauriel! What are you doing?”

"Teaching you a better apology," is her answer. Strong hands snake up her side and cup her face. Her blush increases. "Here, let me show you."

Arwen is just ruffled enough to go without a word.

It feels like an age when she pulls back to the sound of shouts.

"You are right," she tells Tauriel, "that was a better apology."

Tauriel’s eyes flicker to the warriors behind them. “I do not think your brother agrees.”

Indeed not. Elladan is standing before them, face looking more flushed than her, gaze anywhere but on his sister and her lover. Elrohir is some way behind him, bent double and wheezing with mirth.

"Brother," Arwen says. Tauriel’s arms stay pointedly about her waist.

Elladan grumbles. “Sister. Please…refrain from…gods, Arwen, this is a training ground, not your chambers!”

"Ah, so it is. I had not noticed."

Her brother storms off.

Tauriel wraps a thread of dark hair around her finger. “So when you said this wasn’t what you had in mind…”

"Privacy,  _m_ _eleth_ _nín_. I had privacy in mind.”

Tauriel gives the training grounds before them a considering look. “I can come to spar tomorrow.”

"Thank Elbereth."

She sweeps Arwen up in a bridal carry, Arwen’s pale green gown just dusting the floor. “Which way are your rooms again?”

They leave to the sound of elven shouting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I haven’t scuppered my Sindarin:
> 
> Meleth nín - my love.
> 
> Ada - daddy, obviously.
> 
> Ivon - Yavanna.


End file.
